


Far From The Swan-road

by heckofabecca



Series: Far From The Swan-road [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lothíriel wants her funeral to as grand as her father's will be. Is that so much to ask?</p><p>A story about female ambition, companionate love, and the difficulty of knitting a world back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_T.A. 3019  
_ _13 July_

Lothíriel hadn’t been to Minas Tirith in nearly four years, but her family’s palazzo was still home. The outside was much like all the other fine buildings in the White City: white marble, tall columns, solemn facade. But inside was Dol Amroth all over again: colorful tiled floors, gilded ceiling, a small fountain.

She was grateful to have her brother’s arm. The last leg of the journey had been exhausting. Most of it— the sailing along the coast on the Swan-road and up the Anduin— had been wonderful. There was still the threat of a Corsair ship appearing on the horizon, but Lothíriel hadn’t been properly out to sea for so many years that she hardly felt it. It was the slow ride from Harlond to the city gates that wore her out. There, the stench of battle hadn’t quite gone away, and death hung dense enough in the air that she could taste it.

The taste lingered even in the palazzo. She knew it would pass, but for now, she was nearly as gray as Amrothos.

Servants ushered them to a small parlor, where Amrothos deposited her on a couch and threw himself into a facing chair. Lothíriel put her feet up; Amrothos ran a hand over his face and through his short hair.

“I thought I’d finished with the Pelennor, what with the fact that the battle is over, but that was…” Amrothos frowned. “Hellish,” he finally decided.

“Yes,” she said.

Amrothos gave her a look. She looked right back, and he sighed. “I’ve seen friends cut down before, but… I’ve never been in a real battle. Not like that one.” He shuddered, took a deep breath, and forced a grin. “I suppose I’m going soft.”

“I don’t think there has ever been a battle like that one before, Amrothos,” Lothíriel said. “The horror’s not in your head. I wasn’t there, but I felt it, same as you.”

“At least now I can confidently say that I have zero interest in joining any campaigns to clean out Mordor. Just going near the Black Gates would make me positively faint.”

Lothíriel couldn’t contain an eyeroll. Amrothos never had mastered the art of a serious conversation. Fortunately, she was plenty practiced in talking around his sarcasm. “It was hard not know whether you were all dead or alive. I never felt you were dead, but that didn’t stop me from worrying.”

“I’ve heard you were very composed while we were gone. A right proper princess.”

“Composure is not hard, not when people need you to be composed.” Lothíriel toyed with her skirt, not quite meeting Amrothos’s eye. “Or so I find.”

“Well, you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Lothíriel had nothing to say to that. Fortunately, she heard footsteps. “Anyway, here comes Ada.”

Both of them worked their faces into less anguished expressions and stood to greet their father. Imrahil was as princely as ever, with a silver circlet on his brow and a keen look in his sea-gray eyes.

“Mae govannen,” Imrahil said. He kissed Lothíriel’s cheeks and clasped Amrothos’s arms. “How was your journey?”

“Just charming, except for the fields of death.”

Before Imrahil could chastise Amrothos’s ill-placed humor, Lothíriel jumped in. “I’m glad we could sail here. It’s been years since I was really out on the water. The small boats are nothing to our swan-ships.” She glanced at her brother. He looked the picture of innocence, but there was still a gray tinge to his face. “The Pelennor Fields were…”

She paused.

“Hellish.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Lothíriel got to bed, she was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life. They’d arrived not long after midday, but it felt like a week since then.

Her eldest brother, Elphir, was here with his wife and son. Generally, Rían and Alphros were two of Lothíriel’s favorite people in the world, but Alphros had been more active than usual. It had been three months since Lothíriel had seen them, and Alphros always loved exhausting his aunt.

So there was that, along with telling her sister-in-law everything about the last three months that she hadn’t managed to sneak into the few letters she’d sent, plus a long dinner which was a lot of everyone else talking about the virtues of their new king. She was the only one who had yet to meet King Elessar. Even two-year old Alphros remembered meeting him.

There wasn’t much point in wondering why there hadn’t been any proper legal examination of the king’s claim. With Denethor and Boromir both dead and Faramir still recovering, Imrahil was glad to have a strong man at the helm. And even if he didn’t say it in so many words, Lothíriel got the feeling he preferred ruling Belfalas rather than, say, all of Gondor.

And Lothíriel was grateful. Without Elessar, Aragorn as was, her brother Erchirion might have been killed by Corsairs in Pelargir. Faramir may have been left for dead, Rohan may never have come to Gondor’s aid, and the darkness in the east may never have been conquered.

But still, it was a little hard to get used to. There hadn’t been a king in Gondor for a thousand years. Lothíriel wasn’t sure she knew how to deal with living in an age of heroes, much less an age of kings.

Soon, she would meet the new king. Soon, she would see for herself.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, just as Nendis was finishing her hair, Amrothos knocked on her door. As usual, he didn’t bother to wait before bursting in.

“Faramir’s here!”

Nendis knew enough to quickly step away as Lothíriel jumped up and raced out of the room.

“Come on, slowpoke,” Amrothos called. Not that she needed urging-- Faramir was well worth running to. No matter how the last few years had changed him, her cousin still had her heart.

Amrothos slowed down as they approached the parlor. Lothíriel barely paused to catch her breath before going in, pushing past her brother.

Faramir stood up quickly as she came in, and she rushed over and flung her arms around him. He tensed for a moment, and she remembered that she was supposed to be composed. Lothíriel stepped back and looked up at her cousin. He seemed pale and too thin, but he seemed happy to see her. She smiled shakily, eyes stinging. “Mae govannen.”

Faramir gripped her hands warmly before turning to Amrothos. Yes, he was thinner than she remembered, but still strong. “A star shines on the hour of our meeting,” he said.

“I’m sorry no one was here to meet you,” Lothíriel said, settling down onto the couch. Amrothos plopped next to her. “I had no idea you were coming. Otherwise I would have been down sooner.”

“I only just arrived,” Faramir assured her. He sat down in a chair across from them as servants brought in refreshments. “You certainly didn’t keep me waiting.”

“Elphir and Rían are still shut up with Alphros, but I’m surprised Ada isn’t here yet,” Amrothos said.

“I passed him on my way here,” Faramir said. “He was headed to the Tower of Ecthelion to meet with King Elessar.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help biting her lips, and she was glad that Faramir (who noticed everything) didn’t comment on it. His face seemed no less tight than her own. She focused on eating a slice of toast without losing any crumbs.

“I bring an invitation from him, actually,” Faramir continued. “To join him for luncheon.”

“Just us, or the whole family?” Amrothos asked.

“All of you,” Faramir said. “I think Aragorn wants you to know his leaning on your father isn’t done lightly. He wants you to have time with your father as well, as best as can be managed.”

“That’s quite decent of him,” Amrothos said.

Lothíriel hadn’t expect a king to care what his advisors’ families thought, particularly when Elessar himself had no family apart from his Elvish bride. Once the two greatest men in the kingdom supported his claim along with the people— who else was there to convince? Well, however little he needed their approval, Lothíriel was still glad he sought it.

There was a brief lull in the conversation as they all chewed. Lothíriel finished her toast first.

“Faramir,” she said. She looked into her cousin’s face. “Faramir, tell us how you are.”

“Better, I think, than you expect,” Faramir said. “I still grieve for Father and Boromir, but the living have brought joy to my life.” He smiled, and Lothíriel inwardly sighed. She wanted to talk about the dead, not the living.

“And how _is_ Lady Éowyn, cuz?” Amrothos cut in. “Fearsome as ever?”

Faramir frowned at him, but his eyes sparkled. “She is not fearsome, unless you are a coward. And I know you are not.” To Lothíriel, he said, “Éowyn does about as well as I do. We are both grieving and toiling for our realms. We cannot write each other as often or as much as we’d like, but I am content knowing she wishes she could write more.”

“Well, if you are content, I am happy for you. As for your toil, I will gladly help you with anything deemed suitable for my hands and eyes.” Lothíriel wiggled her fingers and grinned as best she could.

Faramir was bemused. “Help? What do you mean?”

Lothíriel grew serious and sat up straighter. “I spent enough time in the high seat at Dol Amroth to know that I enjoy being there. You are Steward of Gondor. I would like to see what that means. And I would like to help.”

 

* * *

 

Amrothos, who was a proper third son, had no interest in spending the morning doing work. He walked Lothíriel and Faramir to the steps up to the seventh circle before leaving them. Faramir and Lothíriel climbed up to the Seventh Gate, where Faramir stopped to greet the two guards there by name.

Lothíriel looked inside the gate as her cousin asked the guards about their families, and then she saw a child-sized Guard of the Citadel walking along with a man-sized companion. She stared as much as she dared, for the guard looked no more like a child than she did, and his lovely hair was almost golden. She had trouble containing herself until Faramir was done.

“Faramir! Is that one of the periannath?”

She didn’t bother pointing. Pointing was rude, and her eyes blazed a trail across the courtyard.

Faramir kept himself to a slight smile, bless him. “Yes, that’s Pippin.”

“He’s the one who saved you? Who knew Boromir, and my uncle?” Her voice wavered when she spoke her elder cousin’s name, and she fixed her eyes on the little guard.

“Yes, that’s him. He fought under your father at the Battle of the Morannon as well.” Faramir’s gaze darkened with some concern when she would not look at him. “Would you like to meet him?”

Lothíriel didn’t bother answering. She took Faramir’s arm, and covertly pushed him towards the perian as she calmed herself. Faramir kept a measured pace despite the pressure on his arm.

“Good day, my lord,” the two guards chorused as they approached. They spoke in Westron. The perian’s voice was light and cheerful; the man’s was grave. Faramir motioned the man to continue his circuit. The perian eyed Lothíriel with interest.

“Pippin, here is my cousin, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth,” Faramir said. “Lothí, this is Peregrin Took, a hobbit of the Shire, and a great hero of the war.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Pippin said. “I know your father, if your father is Prince Imrahil, and if you are anything like him— which I see that you are— you must be very good.”

Lothíriel smiled as she looked down at the pleasant face. She inclined her head deeply. “I’m honored, for my father and for myself.”

Pippin bowed. “I know the prince has done good for my friend Strider, and he is a brave soldier as well.”

“Well, I am no soldier, but if your friend Strider is whom I expect, I hope to do good for him as well.” She crinkled her eyes in amusement at the perian’s bashful grin. Faramir caught her eye and inclined his head in thanks. Lothíriel sobered then. “But as much as I cherish praise of my excellent father, I can never repay the greatest goodness you’ve done for me.” Pippin’s confusion led her to add, “You saved Faramir.” She couldn’t find the words to mention Boromir.

“I would do it again,” he said, “for he’s a man well worth saving.” Pippin blushed, and Lothíriel liked him all the more for it.

“I would dearly love to hear of how you came here,” she blurted out, and then flushed even deeper than Pippin. “If you can speak of it at all.”

“I don’t mind!” He shifted his weight, then glanced after his companion. “Though it’s a long story, and I must return to my post. I am sure we shall meet again soon, and when I can, I will tell you. But for now, farewell!”

The hobbit went, his soft hair bouncing as he hurried after his comrade.

Lothíriel leaned her head against Faramir’s shoulder and watched Pippin go. “What a dear little fellow he is!”

“He is older than you are,” Faramir said, switching back to Sindarin. “Although you’re old for your years, and sometimes he’s young for his. But they’re a simpler folk than we are, I think. All of them have good stout hearts.”

The two cousins strolled towards the Tower of Ecthelion, which jutted up clean and white into the blue sky. A black banner fluttered at the top as the wind toyed with it. Lothíriel gazed up at the tower with a new interest.

Faramir was quiet for a minute before he said, “Pippin fought under your father’s banner at the Battle of the Morannon. He fought bravely.”

“Anyone who went was brave, no matter how they fought,” Lothíriel said warmly. She thought of Amrothos, who had gone despite his horror after Pelennor, and of Elphir, with his wife and young son. “I hope I do meet him again soon.”

“I expect you will.”

 

* * *

 

The tables and desk in the Steward’s chamber were covered in piles of aged pages and scrolls. Recognizing her father’s hand, Lothíriel picked up a letter in Sindarin.

“Faramir, this letter is from months ago.” She frowned. “Are all of these so old?”

“The king and your father are conducting much of the real business. I am going through what my father left behind now, for I was in Ithilien for some time.” Faramir never did anything as uncouth as clench his teeth, but Lothíriel could sense his frustration. Whatever her own feelings about sorting papers— even important papers— she knew Faramir would never complain. And however stubborn and proud she was at other times, Lothíriel was selfless for Faramir. She smiled.

“What can I do, then?”

Faramir’s look softened, and he squeezed her arm affectionately. “I must find something you will find interesting. Well, you always loved to hear about the ranges I went on— there are military reports. They are sorted by date. Could you sort them by location as well?”

The task was easy, and Faramir didn’t mind if she pored over some of the pages longer than strictly necessary. Here was a report on the naval defense of Pelargir, and here one of Faramir’s reports from Ithilien. One stood out, and she picked up a report in her cousin Boromir’s hand. Her own hand shook, and her eyes stung, but she quickly put the page with the others from Osgiliath. Lothíriel took a long, shallow breath, and glanced at Faramir, who was looking at her. She gave a tight smile and went back to work.

When noon came, a servant led them across the courtyard to Merethrond, the King’s feasting-hall. The great hall held countless tables, all bare; the servant took them to a small private room. King Elessar and Imrahil were already there, deep in talk. They stood before a table set for eight.

Lothíriel was glad for her own height, for Imrahil was tall, but the king was taller still. Both men had the gray eyes and dark hair of the Dúnedain.

They broke off their conversation as Faramir led Lothíriel forward.

“My lord, here is Lothíriel of Dol Amroth,” Faramir said. Imrahil looked proudly at her.

She ducked her head to her king. “King Elessar,” she murmured. They gazed at each other a moment, two sets of gray eyes appraising the other.

“Princess, I am honored,” Elessar said. “Your visit is a welcome one. Please call me Aragorn, as your father does, for his family is as dear to me as he is.”

Lothíriel smiled as naturally as she could. “As you wish, Aragorn.”

Elessar himself guided her to a seat of honor at the foot of the table. While Imrahil greeted Faramir, the king murmured, “Thank you.”

She raised her eyebrows as she settled her skirts around her. “For what?”

The king’s smile was enigmatic. “Your help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in an age of kings, Gondor's future— and Lothíriel's— are still being decided.

_T.A. 3019  
14 July _

After lunch, as her family slowly filtered out of the room, King Elessar addressed Lothíriel directly for the second time. “Will you wait on my wife tomorrow morning, Princess? She would like to meet you.”

Lothíriel’s eyes widened. She glanced at her father, who looked pleased. Pleased with her, or himself? Perhaps this was his doing. Either way, it was an honor. She bowed her head. “I will, my lord. Please tell Queen Arwen I am very much looking forward to it.” The king smiled and patted her arm. He took Imrahil’s elbow and led him out, speaking in low tones. Lothíriel put her hand to her stomach and took a steadying breath. She would have to get used to this kingly king of hers.

“Well, sis, that’s lucky,” Amrothos said. He threw his arm around her shoulders. “Too bad she didn’t invite me, too.”

“Queen Arwen has brothers of her own,” Lothíriel said tartly, wriggling out from under him. “She doesn’t need you, too.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re a girl,” he teased, “for otherwise you’d be even less important than me!” He pinched her cheek, and she swatted his hand away. “Well, as it is, we’re about the same, aren’t we?”

Elphir, their oldest brother, took Amrothos by the arm and steered him away. “Lothíriel at least applies herself,” Elphir said sternly. “Come on, Amrothos, let’s make ourselves useful. The king set me a task, perhaps you can assist me.”

Lothíriel watched them go, her mouth in a thin line. Faramir cleared his throat and she spun to face him with a fresh grin. “Shall I come help you again this afternoon?” Faramir glanced away, and her smile fell. “I see.”

“You see there is little for you to do,” he said apologetically. He led her out of the room and through the great hall. “I am glad for your help this morning, and I shall no doubt take you up on your offer again soon.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Lothíriel smiled winningly, though her stomach twisted. They paused at the threshold.

Faramir chuckled. “Have you forgotten your interview with Queen Arwen so soon?” Lothíriel blushed, but Faramir only squeezed her hand. “Soon, I promise.” Lothíriel swallowed a sigh, though Faramir noticed. Faramir always noticed, but he never said anything. She loved him for it. “Meanwhile, Rían waits for you,” he said. “I believe Elphir is with your father and the king until supper.” Lothíriel glanced outside. Her brother’s wife and son hovered nearby.

“I’m sure Alphros will find a way to keep me busy.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s infuriating, Rían, it really is. I know my father must be more welcome than I, but Elphir? Why should I be less welcome than my own brother? Am I not a princess? Have I not sat in the high seat at Dol Amroth, the same as him?”

Lothíriel lay on a couch in the small parlor while Rían crouched on the floor with her son, stacking carved animals as high as they could. Alphros was usually wonderfully distracting, but just now, Lothíriel was full of disappointment. When the little wooden tower collapsed for the fourth time, she heaved a sigh.

Rían stood up, ruffling Alphros’s dark hair, and pushed Lothíriel’s legs until she had room to sit on the couch with her. “I am sorry,” Rían said. “I have no desire to sit in the high seat, or to give counsel to kings or stewards. But no is never easy to hear.” She paused, toying with Lothíriel’s skirt. “I suppose Elphir’s age helps. He’s nearly of an age with your cousin.”

“Elphir was sitting in the high seat with my father’s blessing at my age.” Lothíriel sat up and drew her knees to her chin. “Twenty is not _so_ young.”

Rían giggled. “You are adorable.”

“Oh, please, venerable madam, do lecture this poor, sorry youth on the virtues of old age!” Lothíriel flopped sideways into Rían’s lap and batted her eyelashes at her brother’s wife. “I stand in awe of your twenty-seven years!”

“You lie in awe, you mean,” Rían said with a grin. She wiggled out from under Lothíriel and slid back onto the floor as Alphros’s wooden blocks toppled yet again. “Come on, darling, let’s try again.” She picked up the one of the fallen blocks and held it out to her son. “How about this one on the bottom? Oliphaunts are very strong, you know. The Haradrim use them to carry all sorts of things.”

“They were in the battle at the Pelennor Fields.”

Startled, Lothíriel and Rían spun to face the doorway. Amrothos stood there, face ashen, knuckles white against the dark doorway. He stared at the little tower Alphros was building. Lothíriel slowly sat up, eyes on her brother. He looked at her as if for the first time.

“I… Excuse me.” He rushed away. Rían’s eyes were wide, one hand over her mouth and the other on her son. Lothíriel stood and swept past them both, but Rían grabbed her hand. Lothíriel looked down at her and gave a tight smile.

“It’s alright, Rían. It’s not your fault.” She squeezed Rían’s hand, then pulled herself away after her brother.

A servant in the foyer pointed her outside, and she stepped out into the sun, squinting. She stopped short when she saw Amrothos leaning on the wall to her left just a few feet away. She sidled next to him and put her head against his shuddering shoulder.

“The sun still shines, the sky's still blue,” he said. “But all I see in my mind’s eye are the bodies of dead men.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.” She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she saw it too. The bodies of men at her feet, blood on her arms, the shadow in the east. She shook her head once, and the vision faded. Amrothos’s arm shifted under her cheek. Lothíriel snaked her arm around his.

“Oh, Lothí. You know like no one else,” Amrothos murmured. He kissed her hair, and they leaned together until his shaking stopped. Amrothos rolled out his shoulders, and Lothíriel stepped away from him. “I saw an echo of my own thoughts, just then,” he said, a sudden grin on his face. “Because you saw what I saw, and I saw that.”

“Two mirrors held up each other, hm?” She smiled back at him and brushed his hair from his eyes. She would not be sad to his face, not now that he was merry again. “Except you are brave, and I’m…”

“Ambitious? Power-hungry?”

She swatted his arm, still smiling. “I just want to my funeral to be bigger than yours, brother. Is that so much to ask?”

 

* * *

 

After the family’s late dinner, Lothíriel returned to her room. Her handmaid Nendis began taking the many pins out of her hair.

“Did you meet the queen, Princess?” Nendis’s dark eyes shone in the candlelight. “Is she really as beautiful as they say?”

“No,” Lothíriel sighed. “At least, I didn’t meet her. Not until tomorrow. Queen Arwen eats lunch with her own people.” She traced the pattern on her skirt, careful to keep her head still while Nendis worked. “King Elessar thinks her father and grandmother will sail from Middle-earth soon.”

“Really!” Nendis pursed her lips. “Fancy not being long for Middle-earth.”

“It’s not so strange,” Lothíriel countered. “Men die every day.”

“Yes, but— elves don’t die, do they? Not like we do. They’re immortal. They could stay here forever.”

“Well, the king told us that Lord Elrond said the time of the elves in Middle-earth is ending.”

Nendis let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I suppose when everyone is immortal, time has little meaning.” The last pin finally out, Lothíriel’s dark hair fell down her back in thick braids.

“You’re unusually philosophical tonight, Nendis,” Lothíriel said. She took her maid’s hand and pulled her to stand in front of her. “Queen Arwen has forsaken her immortality to marry the king. Her father and grandmother shall live forever. Tell me whether you’d rather be here or gone to watch your child die.”

“I’d rather know my child than not,” Nendis said. “Although the queen’s probably hundreds and hundreds of years old. Her family must have had a long time to know her. I suppose they don’t want to watch her get old. Her, and all her descendants. Meeting a baby, then watching it die a hundred-odd years later, and you always the same… I don’t know if I could manage that.” She was quiet for a minute, thinking. Lothíriel watched her with greater interest than she’d ever given before. “I would rather have children, whether I outlive them or not.”

Lothíriel had never thought much about having children. It was inevitable, and therefore not particularly pressing. Nendis, on the other hand, was no princess, and marriage and children were far from certain for her. “You’d like to have children, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Nendis said fervently. “And if I have any sons, I’d like them to be soldiers. I know soldiers die, but I’d want them to be that brave all the same. I wouldn’t want them to die, but I wouldn’t give up on having children to avoid it, either.”

Lothíriel studiously kept her face straight and patted her maid’s hand. “I imagine you’d like to marry a soldier, too.”

Nendis smiled shyly and looked at her feet. “They’re strong, and the young ones are handsome. Don’t you want to marry a soldier, Princess?”

Lothíriel pulled her hand away quickly. “I thought I did,” she said bitterly. She thought of Boromir, who died in the wilderness, and Amrothos, who was so often a shadow of his former self. Nendis’s smile died, and she went back to unbraiding Lothíriel’s hair. “I suppose anyone fit to marry me would be a soldier, whether I wanted it or not.” Lothíriel stared glassily at the candles on her dressing-table. “All the great lords are soldiers.”

Nendis was silent as she worked her fingers lightly through her lady’s hair. Lothíriel was grateful for the girl, despite her mood. Nendis was only eighteen and had been in Lothíriel’s service just five months. In those months, she had seen Lothíriel at her worst more often than Lothíriel would have liked. But unlike her mother, who had served Lothíriel before, Nendis knew to keep her counsel when her mistress was unhappy. Lothíriel wondered what Nendis thought about when she was silent as now. Dreams of her future? Concern for her sullen mistress? Awe at Minas Tirith, where she’d never been?

It all seemed so simple to Lothíriel. Fantasizing about a handsome soldier, worrying about a passing mood, marveling at the sight of the White City. Those thoughts seemed so petty now, petty and childish and dull. Minas Tirith was as it had always been, if still recovering from the war; her black mood would pass, and she would be herself again; her future was no less certain than it had ever been, for she would doubtlessly marry a soldier. Why bother with trivialities when thousands were dead, and thousands more were unsure of their future under a foreign king? Why not think about the path of your nation?

Nendis finished unbraiding Lothíriel’s hair and began to brush it out in long, slow strokes, humming quietly to herself.

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes closed. She was ashamed of herself. Nendis was a servant, not a princess— why should she not have simple, honest thoughts and dreams? Why should even one more person than necessary be troubled?

She swallowed. Nendis stilled and went quiet, and Lothíriel took a fortifying breath. “I am plagued with bitter thoughts. I was harsh, and you are blameless. Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Princess.” Nendis worked her way through a tangle gently. She let out a little satisfied _humph_ when she had finally undone it.

 _That_ was the sweetness that Lothíriel valued in women. Nendis was like Rían in some ways— mild, unambitious, and forgiving. It was strange, for Lothíriel was none of those things. She was proud, and greedy for more than she could express. Perhaps she liked Rían and Nendis because they did not thwart her. It occurred to her that perhaps she liked them because they lacked the power to.

She never had become friendly with any of the daughters of the other great lords. Distance surely played a role, but even over months spent at her uncle’s court, Lothíriel had never grown close with any women. Her own family had been enough. She’d been sixteen the last time she’d been to the White City, and nothing had given her as much pleasure as her cousins’ company. She’d been wild about soldiers herself then, although less for their handsomeness and more for their tactics. Lothíriel had no battle urges like Faramir’s Lady Éowyn, but she’d always liked to hear the strategies of victory.

After countless tales of stunning victories, Boromir had finally told her that part of winning was understanding what might lead to failure. Faramir had given her a book about the fall of Arnor, and Boromir told her of unwilling retreats before a final triumphant charge. (He also told her about strategic retreats to lead enemies into a trap.) Lothíriel had listened better to Boromir than she had paid attention to her book, and she had never fully read _Of the Fall of Arnor_. When she’d been packing for this trip, she’d brought the book along.

“Thank you, Nendis,” she said with finality.

Nendis put the comb away. She helped Lothíriel out of the layers of her grey silk dress and pulled a linen sleeping shift over her mistress’s head. Lothíriel went for her smallest trunk as Nendis pulled down the blanket, and she rummaged at the bottom until she found what she was looking for: a leather-bound book.

She read herself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Her dreams were full of the ghosts of dead kings, and they ended with the sound of a clear horn blowing across the land.

 

* * *

 

Lothíriel woke slowly. Cool morning air came in from the open window, full of the crisp smell of the mountain air. She burrowed under her blanket with a yawn. The silk curtains around her bed wavered in the breeze, filtering the early light. Nendis’s pallet bed was already rolled up; Nendis herself was not there. Lothíriel lay still, blinking lazily, until Nendis returned with a breakfast tray that she set on a stand by Lothíriel’s bed.

“Good morning, Princess,” Nendis whispered. Lothíriel smiled sleepily. She propped herself up on her elbows as her maid poured tea. Nendis’s eyelashes brushed against her round cheeks as she carefully set the teapot down; her lips were lightly pursed in concentration. “I hope you slept well.”

“Well enough.” It was only a little untrue. Dead bodies troubled her far more than ghosts, and she’d had more than her fill of corpses. Silent spectres were restful in comparison. She glanced around. “I was reading last night...” She spotted _Of the Fall of Arnor_ by her knees. Nendis peeked at it as she arranged the pillows behind Lothíriel’s back.

“What is is about?”

“The fall of Arnor.”

“Oh!” Nendis bit her lip. “The king is from there. I wonder if he will rebuild it.”

Lothíriel paused in her search for her place in the book. “I suppose he will. He is king of the Reunited Kingdoms, and I suppose that means he must want Arnor to be as much of a kingdom as it was.” She tilted her head. “It would be a very big project. Perhaps longer than even his lifetime.”

Nendis headed to Lothíriel’s clothes chest. “And yours?”

“Oh, Nendis,” Lothíriel said fondly. She stared at nothing in particular and knew how it would be. “King Elessar will outlive us all.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel meets her queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, huge thank you to @brynnmclean, who beta read this chapter and gave me wonderful advice and input! She's fantastic, and I recommend her work.

_T.A. 3019  
_ _15 July_

Lothíriel looked herself over in her mirror one last time. She looked as regal as she’d hoped, with her braided hair bound in a silver net and jewels in her ears and on her forehead. Her blue gown fit snugly around her torso, and the full skirts rustled when she moved. Seed pearls lined the square neckline, and Lothíriel ran her fingers over them. It was a comforting texture. She wondered if the queen liked blue.

She caught Nendis’s eye in the mirror and lifted her chin.

“You look perfect, Princess,” Nendis said. She hovered a few feet away, wide-eyed and smiling.

“Thank you,” Lothíriel replied. She squared her shoulders. “That will be all, Nendis.”

Nendis bowed and left Lothíriel alone to wait for Amrothos, who’d promised to escort her to Queen Arwen. Lothíriel tipped her head left, then right; her dangling earrings sparkled as they brushed against her jaw.

Amrothos was late. She wasn’t particularly surprised, for he’d never been prompt, but she was annoyed. There wasn’t usually— well, there had _never_ been a queen waiting for her. Amrothos hadn’t met Queen Arwen either, and she had thought he’d at least be intrigued enough to be timely. Apparently not!

It was nearly ten o’clock. Lothíriel absentmindedly rubbed circles on the back of her hand as she paced her room. She wanted to make a good impression, but that was something Amrothos barely understood. To her brother, putting in an effort meant behaving not like yourself, and what was the point of that? People would either like you or not, and that was that. Lothíriel knew better.

Amrothos’s bedroom was just next door. She came to a stop at the wall between their rooms. She wouldn’t have to raise her voice much to be heard through the wall, but she hesitated. Would bothering him make him take longer? They’d used to annoy each other terribly doing that, but they’d outgrown that phase. Mostly.

She sighed and spun away. She headed out of her room and one door down, where she lifted her hand to knock just as Amrothos pulled the door open. They both froze and stared at each other. Amrothos was pale in his gray coat; the circles under his eyes were darker than usual.

“Did you sleep?” Lothíriel finally asked.

Amrothos’s eyebrows went up and he smiled drily. “Good morning to you too,” he said. He plucked her hand out of the air and kissed it. “Of course I slept. Shall we?” He tucked her arm in his and started down the hall.

 _Did_ he sleep? He didn’t look at all well-rested. Was it worth asking again, or would he just brush her off? Or get upset... “Maybe I should have come sooner!” she said finally. “Clearly you knew exactly when I was about to bother you.”

Amrothos laughed. “Maybe you should have waited longer, for then I could have annoyed you even more.”

“Well, we’ll see what _the queen_ has to say about your tardiness.” Lothíriel pursed her lips. “Although I suppose I can hardly whine and blame you for being late. I could have gone without you. I _should_ have.”

“What, unescorted?” Amrothos dropped her arm to rush down the stairs; Lothíriel was only halfway down by the time he turned back. He clutched his heart and pouted. “Dear princess, your safety is paramount. You mustn’t put yourself in danger now!”

His impish smile made him look like himself again. Lothíriel skipped down the last few steps and clutched his arm, trying not to smile. “Very well, my prince, you have convinced me. Lead on!”

They wound their way down the smooth stone road between the homes of Gondor’s most notable families.

Out of nowhere, Amrothos said, “I wonder whether Queen Arwen will ask you to stay with her while the rest of us go up to Rohan.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, well, there’s King Théoden’s funeral procession. I imagine the queen will stay here. _Someone_ has to.”

Lothíriel blinked. She knew of the upcoming trip to Rohan, although not in detail. She’d come to Minas Tirith to pay her respects to the king and queen and to see her father before he headed north. Amrothos had never said that he was going to Rohan, too. She’d assumed he was staying here with her and Elphir’s family.

“I didn’t realize you were going,” she managed. “I thought only Ada was going.”

“Oh.” Amrothos chewed his lip. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

Lothíriel grimaced. They climbed up the steps to the Seventh Gate in an uncomfortable silence until they reached the guards stationed at the top. Lothíriel remembered them from yesterday when Faramir had spoken with them, so she managed to greeted them by name. The two guards smiled and bowed, which made her cheerful again.

Once they were in the Citadel, they hurried around the Court of the Fountain to the King’s House. Lothíriel had never been inside. Whenever she’d been in Minas Tirith, it had been shut up or full of foreign dignitaries. There had been a party from Dale visiting the summer she was sixteen. Although she’d seen little of them, being so young, their bustle had fascinated her.

Now, instead of a banner from Dale, a black spangled banner of Gondor hung by the doors of the King’s House. A pair of guards flanking the doorway perked up when they saw Lothíriel and Amrothos. One reached back and slapped the door, which opened from within.

Out came an elf.

Lothíriel stopped in her tracks; Amrothos grinned. He bent his head and whispered, “It’s Elladan, one of the queen’s brothers.”

Elladan was tall and fair of face, with his dark hair brushed back and a star bound on his brow. He looked neither old nor young, though his sly smile reminded her of Amrothos. His tunic was dark blue, his long open vest a dark blue velvet; both were embroidered with a delicate pattern in silver thread. He looked as princely as her father.

Elladan’s keen gray eyes fixed on hers, and she lifted her chin. She had never seen an elf before, but she would _not_ fall to her knees in awe. That would be undignified, and it would dirty her skirt. Much better to stand straight and proud.

Elladan’s sly smile widened. He clasped his long hands behind his back and looked expectantly at Amrothos.

“My lord, I present Princess Lothíriel, here to see Queen Arwen,” Amrothos said. He led Lothíriel forward with a firm hand on her back. She did not take her eyes from the elf’s face, even when he bowed his head to her.

“My sister is eager to receive you, Princess.” Elladan’s Sindarin was beautifully accented. The elf looked Amrothos up and down. “You’re welcome to come in as well, Amrothos.”

“A true honor,” Amrothos intoned. “The queen is all kindness.” Lothíriel glanced up at her brother, and he winked at her. “I had assumed she had her fill of annoying brothers, but I am relieved to learn otherwise.”

“Amrothos!” Lothíriel gasped, but Elladan laughed.

“Do not worry, Princess, your brother and I are of the same mind!” Elladan took her hand and kissed it. The amused look he gave her was pleased enough to make her blush. She smiled as Elladan kept her hand in his, pulling her towards the King’s House. “My sister has the patience of Nienna herself. She still loves me after all this time. I promise she can handle whatever your brother thinks fit for her presence. Now, come in, come in.”

Once they got inside, Lothíriel looked around. The decor was classic Minas Tirith, all strong lines and monochrome white stone. A servant opened a door to the right, and Lothíriel saw red draperies on the walls before they emerged into a sitting room, and there, with a bound book in her lap, was the queen.

The room fell away before the woman seated in a chair; even the light from the windows seemed wan in comparison. Queen Arwen was more fair than anyone Lothíriel had ever seen, with a clear face, bright gray eyes, and dark braids. Like her brother, the queen seemed ageless, her beauty timeless. Was she the likeness of Lúthien? Lothíriel believed it. The queen’s small smile was greater compliment than words could convey.

Elladan cleared his throat lightly. “Here is Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, and her brother Amrothos.” The two Gondorians bowed their heads; Lothíriel tore her eyes from the queen to glance at her brother, who looked similarly gobsmacked. “Amrothos here was so eager to make your acquaintance that he overcame all my protestations.”

Amrothos smiled, bashful in the queen’s presence in a way he’d not been with King Elessar. “My queen, I am honored beyond expression.”

“You are most welcome,” Queen Arwen said. Her voice was a melodious alto, sweet and warm. “Both of you.” She extended a graceful white arm, her palm up, and said, “Please, sit.”

Elladan brought Lothíriel to a couch near the queen; he plopped gracefully down next to her as she arranged her skirts. Amrothos perched stiffly on a chair, his usual easy manner quite gone. The queen set her book aside.

“I hope the journey here was not too arduous for you, Princess.”

“Not at all,” Lothíriel said automatically. Belatedly, she added, “My queen.” How strange to say that! And yet necessary if she wanted to make a good impression. “It was a great joy to be at sea again. But you have traveled a much greater distance to get here.” The queen inclined her head in agreement. “Besides, I had Amrothos for company. Whatever the physical difficulties, his presence is a comfort.”

Amrothos raised his eyebrows a little, but smiled in thanks. The queen exchanged a private glance with her own brother and turned to Lothíriel.

“How have you found Minas Tirith since you arrived?” she asked. “Is it much changed from your last visit?”

“Not beyond recognition,” Lothíriel said. “I have not been here long enough to see many changes beyond those here in the Citadel. I suppose...” She hesitated and glanced at her brother, whose face was carefully still. The queen tilted her head and smiled encouragingly, so Lothíriel continued. “I suppose the greatest change anywhere in the city— perhaps in all of Gondor— is that we now have a king. And a queen as well.”

The queen looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “The greatest change? Great as in large, or good?”

“I hardly know,” Lothíriel said, and then her eyes went wide in the face of the queen’s astonishment. She floundered for something, anything to say to salvage the moment. “I mean to say—”

“No, please,” Arwen said. “Your candor is welcome. I have met few enough of my new people, and I shall be glad to know what you think.” She was leaning forward now, commanding in presence if not in speech, and Lothíriel was compelled to reply.

“I think you are foreigners,” she blurted, and even she was shocked. She clutched the edge of her seat; Elladan tensed beside her, and Amrothos bit his knuckle. But Valar help her, it was true. No going back now; she raised her chin. “I think many in Gondor will be wary. The last time we had a king with foreign blood, we had a war. But no matter the distance, the king is as much a Dúnadan as any in Gondor. No one would think otherwise. So… I think it will be well. Perhaps not for some time, but we shall grow used to you.” Lothíriel took a deep breath. “Given time, _all_ Gondor will rejoice,” she finished.

The queen sat back in her chair and rubbed her mouth as she stared at Lothíriel. Lothíriel swallowed, her neck tense and her fingers digging into the couch. She did not look away, even when she felt Elladan shift next to her. She _would_ not look away. No matter how harsh, the truth was the truth, and that was what the queen had asked for. She could accept what she’d heard with grace or punish Lothíriel for her rudeness. However the queen reacted, Lothíriel knew that judgment went both ways. She hoped her new queen was as wise as she was beautiful, but it was Queen Arwen’s actions now that would dictate Lothíriel’s opinion and future behavior. If the queen thought less of her because of what she’d said, so be it.

The silence stretched on. Lothíriel swallowed again, pushing the rising bile back down. This was not the time for nausea.

Finally, the queen nodded.

“I am glad, Princess, that you came to visit, for you are not only fair of face, but wise as well.” Lothíriel’s stomach settled. If she hadn’t been so nervous, the praise would have made her blush. As it was, she managed only a small smile. The queen turned to Amrothos. “Prince Amrothos, my brother Elrohir was hoping to see you as well. Elladan will take you to him.”

“Oh, certainly,” Elladan said. Lothíriel was amused by his tone: it was the same one Amrothos used when she bossed him around and he didn’t care to thwart her. “Come on, Amrothos.” The two men, one young, one not so, left arm in arm. Lothíriel watched Queen Arwen watch them go until the door closed behind them. The queen hadn’t asked Amrothos for his thoughts, Lothíriel noted. Had she heard enough male opinions?

Arwen turned back to Lothíriel and considered her for a moment. “Have you spent much time here in Minas Tirith, Princess?”

“Enough that I still consider our palazzo here a second home,” Lothíriel answered. “It is different from Belfalas, of course, but Minas Tirith is the heart of Gondor. It was my father’s duty to assist my—” Lothíriel took a breath, throat suddenly tight— “my uncle Denethor, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith.” She swallowed and put on a smile. “And I always loved to see my cousins.”

Arwen nodded slowly. “Faramir and his brother. I remember Boromir.”

“Yes,” Lothíriel said, surprised. Although, of course—

“Your cousin came to Imladris,” Arwen continued. “It was last autumn that he arrived. It’s strange to think that I saw him more recently than you.”

Lothíriel was chilled. She had not thought of it like that. She had not seen her cousin for four years. She knew others had seen him since, and strangers beside, but seeing them for herself made things different. Her hands shook; she clasped them together. The queen seemed to realize she’d said something wrong. Before she could apologize (or say something worse?), Lothíriel asked, “And what did you think of him, my queen?”

The queen tilted her head again and thought for a minute. When she spoke, her words were careful, slow. “He was more a man of Gondor than anyone I had ever seen. His love for this place gave him the strength and will of many men. He traveled a perilous distance to reach the north, all for love of his country. I am sorry he has gone.”

“Yes,” Lothíriel said. “So am I.”

The conversation faltered, but for once, Lothíriel did not mind. She was content to look at the queen as she swallowed away the tightness in her throat. Queen Arwen gazed regally into the middle distance, her face as lovely in profile as from every other angle. Light passing through the white gem that hung upon her breast left a dappled pattern under her chin. Lothíriel was not ashamed of staring when the queen turned back and caught her eyes until she remembered that she was not looking at a peer. She glanced away to the red draperies. The one behind the queen was embroidered with gold and silver. Lothíriel squinted to make out the picture, and then it jumped out at her: a river running through a valley with tall trees and the wind blowing, and a high garden above it all.

“Your hanging is beautiful,” she said. “Is that Imladris?”

“Thank you. It is. That is the river Bruinen, which flows out of the Misty Mountains.”

“Ah,” Lothíriel said. Geography was not a strong suit, but at least she knew where the Misty Mountains were.

Arwen asked about Lothíriel’s home by the sea, and Lothíriel answered cheerfully. Here, at least, she was able to talk with authority. She even slipped in a number of hints about life in Gondor without condescension. She hoped. But the queen listened diligently, and even expressed a wish to learn the harp in the style of Dol Amroth. Lothíriel recommended her aunt Ivriniel’s favored master as a teacher. The queen repeated his name twice and thanked her.

Finally, Arwen sat back comfortably in her chair. “So tell me, Princess Lothíriel,” she said, “will you be joining us when we ride to Rohan?”

_Us?_

“I had no notion that you would be going,” Lothíriel managed. “I know very little of the plan. I had not expected to go.”

The queen looked over Lothíriel’s shoulder as she spoke. Lothíriel looked down at her skirt when she realized that the queen's distant expression was masking discomfort. Was that unease, or sadness? Either way, Arwen's voice was as even and pleasant as it had been. “It will be a large party. The eight Companions who went from Imladris, the king and his knights, the Lord Faramir. Whatever men of Rohan return here to collect King Théoden’s bier, and whomever Prince Imrahil chooses. And all of my kinsmen shall travel to Rohan, and then further on to their own homes.”

Which meant that in Rohan, Arwen would say farewell to her father, perhaps forever, and she would have no friends to lean on save her busy husband. Even an immortal elf must need companionship at such a time. No wonder she was upset. Lothíriel bit her lower lip. Was this the real reason for her visit?

“I should like to go,” Lothíriel dared. “I have never been to Rohan, and I am sure that Amrothos, at least, would not mind my company.”

Arwen’s lips curled into a smile. “He is not the only one.” She reached out and pressed Lothíriel’s hand in thanks. “I will make arrangements for you to join us.”

The door burst open without a knock. In sauntered Elladan with Amrothos. “So you will come with us to Rohan, Princess!” the elf said, and Amrothos looked surprised.

“Truly, Lothí?” Amrothos made a delayed bow to the queen. “You honor us, my queen.”

“We shall see how well Gondorian maidens weather the open road,” Elladan teased.

Lothíriel rose to her feet half a beat behind the queen, who shook her lovely head at her brother.

“You may tease me, dear brother, but never my guests,” the queen said.

Elladan raised his eyebrow and bowed in apology.

Arwen turned back to Lothíriel and clasped her hands. “I am very glad you shall come. I shall see you soon, for there is to be a feast of welcome for the men of Rohan in three day’s time. But for now, fare well!”

Elladan took Lothíriel and Amrothos back outside, bowed low in farewell, and returned inside. The two siblings collected themselves and stared at each other in wonder.

“Well, I had a nice time,” Amrothos said, a little dazed.

Lothíriel thought of the queen’s clear earnest gaze, her unearthly beauty, her careful consideration of everything Lothíriel had said. She thought of the magnanimous welcome and the surprising invitation she had received. She thought of how the queen had squeezed her hands in gratitude; her palms tingled with the memory. Lothíriel laughed weakly.

“I think I did, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel prepares for her trip to Rohan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks are due for my dear beta reader @brynnmclean! I hope everyone enjoys this chapter!

When her father and Elphir came home that evening, Lothíriel, Amrothos, Rían, and little Alphros were all in the small parlor. Amrothos was sprawled on the floor helping Alphros with a puzzle, and Lothíriel and Rían were making a packing list for Lothíriel’s trip to Rohan. Everyone stood up for Imrahil, who nodded to them in greeting.

Alphros toddled happily over to Elphir. Elphir swung his son onto his hip and took him over to greet Rían, who presented her cheek for a kiss. Imrahil came over as well.

“Well, daughter, you have been greatly honored,” Imrahil said by way of greeting. He kissed Lothíriel’s cheeks and clasped her hands warmly. He gave Rían a curt, polite nod before settling onto the couch. Rían sat back down at once, and Elphir took Lothíriel’s offered seat next to her with a glance at his father.

“I’m sure Lothíriel is looking forward to weeks without her common luxuries,” Amrothos said. Lothíriel shot him a dirty look and stood stiffly as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Really, Amrothos,” Elphir said disapprovingly. “I would have thought you’d be glad Lothíriel is going.”

“Oh, I am glad,” Amrothos insisted. He gave Lothíriel’s cheek a wet kiss; she wriggled away with a laugh. “She’s the only one who puts up with me.”

Imrahil cleared his throat. “Amrothos, see to it that Lothíriel is prepared by the time Éomer arrives. No last-minute rushing about, if you please. I expect my children to make a good impression on the people of Rohan.”

They all nodded.

The next morning, Lothíriel got to work.

She made Amrothos take her to the nearby stables to visit her horse, Mithroch, and confer with the head groom. She’d ridden Mithroch on trips before, but never without at least a day of rest between stretches of travel. And she’d certainly never been outside of Gondor before. Between the groom’s advice and Amrothos’s (admittedly helpful) interjections, Lothíriel was satisfied with both the pack horse she selected and the amount of feed set aside for her animals.

That afternoon, Queen Arwen sent word that a pavilion and bed had been set aside for her use. Lothíriel was flattered, although she soon came to the conclusion that she would have rather had the queen choose her clothes than her lodgings. Picking a tent was easy, but Lothíriel still didn’t know what clothes to bring. Or how many!

Her father had made it clear that Lothíriel needed to appear to advantage, but she didn’t want to seem too caught up with her appearance. What was the right balance? She had to bring a mourning gown for King Théoden’s funeral and a fine gown for feasts... Or should she bring two gowns? And how many everyday dresses did she need for the trip itself?

She thought about it as she put together a traveling kit like the one she’d used on her way to Minas Tirith. Soap, a cup and plate, a blanket, a lantern, some candles. Her brother’s family gave her gifts for her journey as well. Elphir gave her a book about the history of Rohan as a gift for her host, as well as one of his ornamental daggers. “Just in case,” he told her with a grimace. Rían gave her a pomander to keep unsavory smells at bay. Alphros didn’t really understand that she was leaving soon, but he gave her one of his carved animals when he saw his parents giving her presents. Lothíriel thanked him seriously and promised to keep the wooden horse close while she was away.

Dinnertime was quiet since her father was still at the citadel. Lothíriel wolfed down her risotto, hoping to continue her preparations, but Elphir made her stay at the table until everyone was done.

“I’ve hardly seen you since I left home in March,” he complained. He reached over to take his wife’s hand. “Rían and I will both miss you while you’re away. Don’t waste your last evenings with us on work that can easily be done later.”

Lothíriel knew better than to argue with Elphir. She made her best effort to be sociable all the way through dessert. Amrothos, who hated lemons, passed his tart to her; she poked at it with her knife until Elphir sighed and excused her. She grinned and even gave her oldest brother a kiss on the cheek before running up to her room.

Nendis was setting aside some of Lothíriel’s favorite jewelry, but she stopped at once to bow. “Good evening, Princess.”

“Hello, Nendis,” Lothíriel said. She moved her dressing stool to by one of her trunks and began to sort through her clothes. “Do you have any notion of how many gowns I ought to bring?”

Nendis seemed surprised by the question, but after a few moments of thought, she laid out an altogether reasonable plan. Lothíriel was pleased.

“You’re a proper treasure,” she told Nendis.

“Thank you,” Nendis said, blushing prettily. She was quiet for a minute while she smoothed down the mourning gown on Lothíriel’s bed and began to fold it. “Princess… Am I to come with you to Rohan?”

Lothíriel put down the dress she was looking at and opened her mouth, but she realized she had no answer. In all the commotion of planning for her trip, she had totally forgotten about Nendis, her own servant. And she wondered why no one gave her anything to do! Of course they didn’t trust her with anything.

Nendis was watching her with wide eyes; Lothíriel squirmed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think to wonder.” Lothíriel’s cheeks were hot. What on earth must Nendis think of her now? “Please don’t think badly of me for it.”

Her handmaid smiled a little helplessly. “Princess, you’ve always been good and kind. How could I think badly of you?”

“I will ask my father about it as soon as he comes home,” Lothíriel promised. “And if you are to stay in Minas Tirith, I will make sure you are well provided for while I am away.”

Nendis bowed. Lothíriel stood up to help her pick the best clothes to bring, and until she heard her father come in, she tried to be as helpful as she could.

Once her father was at work in his study, she left Nendis with a strained smile and went to knock on Imrahil’s door.

“Come in.”

Lothíriel smoothed her skirt and went in, closing the door behind her. “Good evening, Ada.”

Prince Imrahil set aside his work and stood to greet his daughter with a kiss on the cheek. “How are you getting along in your preparations for our trip?”

“Very well so far,” she said. She clasped her hands behind her back as her father sat back down. “Ada, will my maid be coming with us?”

“Do you need her?” Imrahil sat back comfortably in his chair.

Lothíriel was suddenly reminded of the times in her childhood when her father would summon her to his office and present a query. Imrahil had always already known the right course of action, but she’d learned a lot talking through simple logistical problems and moral matters alike.

Of course, she hadn’t really had time to think about whether Nendis should come to Rohan with her. But it was a foolish oversight— she was responsible for Nendis, and people should always come before choosing a pack horse. She rubbed circles on her palm behind her back.

“I think so,” she started. Imrahil raised his eyebrows encouragingly, though he did not smile. He never smiled until she reached the right conclusion. She spoke slowly, working through her thoughts. “I could manage without Nendis, and it would save us the cost of feeding and housing an extra person on the road and in Rohan. But I would rather spend the money to bring her. I am not used to traveling alone, and if I am to make a good impression as a woman of Gondor, I should look my best. And I cannot make myself up so well as Nendis can.”

“Hm,” Imrahil said.

“And I would be uncomfortable without her company,” Lothíriel added. “I know no other women going, apart from the queen, and she will be busy with her own people.”

“Are you not also one of her people?” Her father was smiling now. Good.

“I am her loyal subject, but I do not expect her to spend all of her time with me. Not until her kinsmen have left us. She will want to savor her last days with her family before they part forever. I am honored that I was invited to be part of this journey, but I know my chief business will not begin until the elves have left. In the meantime, I need a companion of my own. And Nendis is my choice, for her abilities and temper alike.”

“Very well, you have convinced me,” Imrahil said. He pulled his work back to its place in front of him. “I trust you to make whatever preparations she will need.”

Lothíriel bowed her head and made to leave, but paused halfway to the door. “ _I_ convinced _you_? Didn’t you already know the right answer?”

“I would have been satisfied whatever you chose.” Imrahil set his quill down and looked at Lothíriel with a mix of pride and exasperation. “Do you think I am still testing you, as I did when you were a girl? I have not forgotten what you did for Belfalas while your brothers and I were at war. However little there is for you to do here and now, your work in those months has shown me you are capable. Not all decisions need be made by me. Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow you have work do.”

Lothíriel swallowed, nodded, and left.

Tomorrow, she had work to do.

 

* * *

 

She dreamt she was back in the high seat at Dol Amroth, but this time she was not flanked by Aunt Ivriniel. Instead, she sat alone on the dais, men and women and children of Belfalas gathered around. Her family looked up at her, smiling. The crowd swelled and pushed out the walls of the room until the whole room was the sea. The dais bobbed along in the water. Lothíriel nodded magnanimously down to her people.

A shadow fell over the room, and Lothíriel looked up to see a great wall of water rushing towards them from the east. Everyone began to scream, but Lothíriel’s voice was gone. She reached up and clawed at her face, but she could not even open her mouth; her face was fixed into a serene smile. All she could do was watch her father and brothers leap onto their steeds and ride into the frothing water. Her people gripped at the edge of the dais, knuckles white and faces tortured. Some managed to pull themselves partway up, legs trailing in the water and their arms reaching for her.

Lothíriel tried to pull her knees away from their grasping hands. As she did, she saw in her mind’s eyes that had become Rían, overwhelmed and trembling. Lothíriel pushed her legs back down and looked out over the choppy waves to where her father led a company of knights riding on squawking swans. Her eyes widened in horror as her father was swept away under a slap of seawater. She lurched to her feet, the hands of her people still clutching at her legs, and tried to pull free to dive into the water after her father and brothers. A sword appeared in her hand; she was Lady Éowyn, her face a death mask and her hair the color of straw.

Before she could do anything, the rogue wave crashed. With the pressure of a thousand hands and the sound of a thousand pleading supplications, the force of the wave crushed Lothíriel back into the high seat, and she woke with a gasp.

She sat up in bed and clutched the covers to her heaving chest. She felt like the sea was still pressing down on her; her arms felt a hundred pounds each. It was a few minutes before she felt close to normal again.

Down on the floor, Nendis stirred in her sleep.

Lothíriel twisted sideways to look at her. Nendis slept on her side, her arm under her head and one leg pulled up. The blanket was askew, leaving one of Nendis’s pale feet uncovered. Did she toss and turn in her sleep? Lothíriel didn’t know. At home in Belfalas, Nendis slept in the antechamber to Lothíriel’s room. The palazzo here in Minas Tirith had no antechambers, but Lothíriel had never had trouble sleeping. A second person in the room didn’t bother her. She wondered if it bothered Nendis. Probably not— before she’d taken over her prized position from her mother, Nendis had slept in the same room with many other servants in Imrahil’s household.

She started when she realized Nendis had woken up and was looking up at her, sleep still heavy in her eyes.

“Princess,” Nendis murmured, “you’re up early.” She rubbed her face and sat up blinking. “You look tired. Did you sleep?”

Lothíriel nodded. (Hadn’t she asked Amrothos the same thing not two days ago?) She pulled her knees up and gazed out the window. “My dreams are trying to trick me. They want me to question how I led Dol Amroth through the war.” She paused. Nendis was silent, though Lothíriel heard the rustling sounds of Nendis getting dressed and kept her eyes on the window. “I did the right thing. I know I did. Anything else I could have done would have been wrong.”

Her dream had been clear enough. She could have been overwhelmed like Rían and left everything to others. Rían’s duty had been to support Lothíriel and Ivriniel, but she had grown too despondent to do more than care for Alphros. The whole household could see how little respect Prince Imrahil had for Rían now. Lothíriel had no intention of losing her father’s faith like Rían. She might have instead gone with her father and brothers when they rode to war like Lady Éowyn, but she was no shieldmaiden. She would only have gotten herself injured, or killed. She had done the only thing worth doing. Yet in her dream, she had been overpowered.

Nendis knelt by her bedside and pressed her hand into the mattress; Lothíriel turned to looked at her.

“Princess, we were all so grateful for you,” Nendis said. “You were just what Belfalas needed. Why, once you took the high seat, I was approached by all sorts of people who wanted to see you, for whatever reason! Sometimes they even offered me money.”

Lothíriel giggled, the tension fading. “I’m sure you wish you’d taken it!”

“Well…” Nendis gave a wicked smile. “I did!” At the princess’s scandalized look, she quickly added, “But only from the two with enough to spare! And I knew that you would see them whether I said anything or not.”

“Nendis! That was not right!” Lothíriel clutched her hair. Was this the sweet, gentle girl she’d so eagerly praised to her father? Was that sweetness all a façade? “How could you have done such a thing?”

Nendis flushed and turned away to roll up her pallet bed. “I shared it with the poor,” she said. She spun back to face her mistress. Her jaw was set, eyes bright. “They needed it more than that cloth merchant or Lord Aldamir’s son did. The war made life hard outside of the castle walls.” Under Lothíriel’s stern stare, her righteous indignation soon withered. She scrambled to her feet and bowed low. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do it again. Please forgive me.”

Lothíriel sighed. She couldn’t do anything about it now. “I forgive you, but if I hear you’ve done anything like this again, I will have to dismiss you.” Nendis blanched and nodded. She quickly finished putting away her pallet bed.

Lothíriel’s heart twisted at the thought of dismissing her maid. Nendis hadn’t taken the money for herself, but for others. She was kind and sweet and as good a companion as any maid could be. And Lothíriel remembered the men that Nendis was talking about. They weren’t bad people, but neither were they charitable. They would never have given money to the poor when it could have been used for themselves. From a certain angle, Nendis had given the charity on their behalf.

But Nendis should have known better! What she did reflected not only on herself, but on Lothíriel, too. What would people say if they heard that her maid was accepting bribes? Certainly nothing good. Lothíriel was glad her father hadn’t heard of this, although it didn’t seem likely that anyone would have gone bragging about it.

As she looked back to Nendis, whose contrite face was more frightened than Lothíriel had ever seen, her stern mood softened. When she spoke, she was as gentle as possible. “Perhaps you would be so good as to get breakfast.”

Nendis bowed again without meeting her mistress’s eye and left, pulling the door shut behind her.

Lothíriel rubbed her temples and swung out of bed.

By the time Nendis came back with a breakfast platter, Lothíriel had wrapped most of her jewelry in velvet. She finished laying the parcels into a carved box set out on her bed as Nendis poured tea. Lothíriel watched out of the corner of her eye; she half expected Nendis’s hands to tremble. But no, the girl was as steady as ever. Her face was tranquil, her eyes only a little red. And after all, she was only eighteen— still a girl. Now that Nendis knew what her princess thought, Lothíriel trusted that she would do better.

Second chances were worth it for the pure of heart.

 

* * *

 

Imrahil came home early that evening, well before dinner. He joined his family in the first-floor parlor, brandishing a note and smiling broadly.

“The riders of Rohan will arrive tomorrow morning,” he announced. Everyone clustered around him. “Éomer sent a courier ahead.” His obvious cheer was infectious, and for the first time since Queen Arwen’s invitation, Lothíriel was excited. Rían danced around in a circle with Alphros on her hip, singing in her clear high voice as her son laughed. Elphir chattered excitedly with their father. Lothíriel spun to look at all of them in turn, grinning.

Only Amrothos stood apart. Lothíriel reached out and pulled him closer. His grin was forced. He bent to speak in her ear; she cocked her head to listen.

“The last time I saw the Rohirrim riding for Minas Tirith, Lothí, the whole world was about to be crushed under a tide of evil.”

She pulled back and clutched his hands, staring into his eyes. Had he seen into her dream last night? No, but he doubtless had his own horrible dreams. “Everything is fine now, Amrothos,” she insisted. He shook his head. “We won the war. It’s over. Everything is fine.” Amrothos pulled his hands away.

“I’m not fine, Lothí. I am not.”

Her brother smiled tightly and slipped out of the room, and Lothíriel’s stomach fell. The ring of power had been destroyed, its master defeated. The race of Men had been victorious against the enemy. Sauron could never return to Middle-earth. Lothíriel, her family, her nation— all of that was safe.

So why did it feel like these battles against the darkness would never end?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rohirrim arrive at Minas Tirith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to @brynnmclean, my wonderful beta reader! Thanks also to Gabe (@kelasparmak on tumblr) for helping me do the math necessary to time a trek from the top of Minas Tirith to the bottom.

_T.A. 3019_  
_18 July_

While Lothíriel was drinking her morning tea, her father’s manservant brought word that the Rohirrim were due at the Great Gate of Minas Tirith at midmorning and that the family would be heading down in half an hour.

Lothíriel gulped down her tea and licked the last of the jam off her fingers. She leapt out of bed and shimmied out of her shift. Nendis handed her a fresh linen chemise and helped her step into a petticoat, then her gown. The gown was deep blue with a pattern of white and silver stars around the collar and over the skirt. Two swans were embroidered on the bodice, their necks curled and wings folded. It was her most blatant marker of her heritage, and she had been saving it for an occasion like today’s.

Once Nendis finished lacing up the back of the dress, Lothíriel settled herself down to put on her sapphire jewelry and let her maid tuck her hair into her favorite pearl-trimmed hair net. There was no time now to create the elaborate braided style Lothíriel favored, but Nendis managed to make her look presentable all the same. Even the queen had worn her hair in just two thick braids, Lothíriel remembered, and right now the only thing she would really be doing was riding through congested streets.

As Nendis was getting the better of the last few unruly strands, shouting from next door made both of them freeze. Lothíriel stood up slowly to let Nendis make the finishing touches to her appearance.

“All set, Princess,” Nendis said, and Lothíriel rushed out of her room.

The next door over was Amrothos’s. It was open, and Elphir stood inside, fully dressed.

“We have a responsibility,” he snapped. “Ada and King Elessar _and_ Éomer expect us to be at the gates. What kind of prince are you, that you won’t ride down to greet your friends?”

Lothíriel nudged her way inside and looked up at Elphir; his face was red as he glanced at her. She looked around to find Amrothos still in bed, facing the other way. The blankets had been pulled down and were in a pile over Amrothos’s feet. He had pulled his nightshirt around his knees.

“I’ve got a headache,” Amrothos mumbled.

Elphir bristled. “That’s no excuse—”

“Pardon me,” Lothíriel interrupted. Elphir stared down at her, shocked. She walked calmly over to Amrothos, who at the sound of her voice had turned a little towards his siblings. Elphir watched as she sat down on their brother’s bed and leaned over to place a hand on his forehead.

Amrothos glanced up at her once, and though he looked away almost at once, his bloodshot eyes branded themselves in her brain. Lothíriel bent and pressed her forehead against her brother’s shoulder. She swallowed her fury before she turned back to Elphir.

“Amrothos is not well,” she said, and her voice shook. She longed to be at the gates for the arrival of the Rohirrim, but if she went now, she’d be too worried to pay any attention. She swallowed again and fixed a tight smile on her face. “I will look after him. I’m sure he’ll be much better for the feast.”

“Absolutely not!” Elphir strode over to the bed. He pulled Lothíriel to her feet; she yanked herself free. “We have a duty to our father and our king. Anything else is a dishonor, and I won’t make excuses for him, Lothíriel!”

“You needn’t make excuses,” Lothíriel argued. She rubbed her arm where Elphir had grabbed her. “Amrothos isn’t fit to go riding through the city, just look at him! It’s more dishonor on us if we drag invalids out where they won’t be missed.”

“Amrothos is not an invalid,” Elphir retorted. “He was scarcely wounded; his injuries have healed. Surely you of all people can see this—” he gestured at Amrothos— “does us no credit!”

Lothíriel had to bite her tongue. Her own values almost entirely revolved around supporting her family. As their father’s heir, Elphir was more concerned with the family honor than she was. Yet what kind of honor was it if Elphir insisted on ignoring their brother’s obvious malady?

Elphir looked at her sternly. When she said nothing, he threw up his hands. “We were all supposed to meet the Rohirrim at the gates, and now I shall have to make excuses for you both. I expect you to make ample apology at the feast.”

Lothíriel pulled Amrothos’s blankets back up and pressed a hand to his quivering shoulder before turning back to Elphir. She raised her chin.

“While you and Father were off at war, I sat in the high seat at home. Rían was plagued then as Amrothos is now. I see now that you would have preferred me to ignore her. Shall I apologize for those times I left early from meetings at Dol Amroth to check on your poor, tormented wife?”

Elphir blinked. “I—no. Certainly not.” He blushed and gave a stiff bow. “Sister, you put me to shame. Forgive me. Amrothos, feel better.” He left them, shutting the door behind him.

Lothíriel put a hand to her forehead and squeezed shut her eyes. She had a headache now, too. She leaned against Amrothos’s bed.

She couldn’t believe herself—she’d never interrupted or countermanded Elphir like that before. He was her father’s heir, the future Prince of Dol Amroth. King Elessar had chosen him specially to help lead while he was sojourning with the rest of them in Rohan. He was twelve years Lothíriel’s senior, with all of the knowledge that came with those years. And yet…

A hand touched her wrist; Lothíriel jumped. But it was only Amrothos. He was still lying down, and his eyes were still red, but he was facing her and smiling a little.

“Thank you,” he said. He closed his eyes again and sighed when Lothíriel sat properly next to him and stroked his hair.

“Elphir was wrong,” Lothíriel grumbled. “He should have let you be.”

Amrothos shook his head. “Elphir would not be himself if he thought a _headache_ was reason enough to scrimp out on duty,” he said. “He’ll make an excellent Prince of Dol Amroth someday. Devotion to duty is a good quality for him to have. It just makes him a terrible brother.”

“He’s not terrible,” Lothíriel began. She was ready to defend Elphir, but Amrothos made a shushing motion to stave her off.

“Oh, I’m sure he loves me, but he would rather I were more like you and Erchirion, and he makes no secret of it.” He nodded at her skeptical look. “I disappoint him, Lothíriel. But I’m a third son, and not a very nice one at that. I don’t care enough to impress all the young ladies, or anybody else. At least Father understands that there’s no good reason for me to be any better than I am.”

“None of us are perfect.” Lothíriel toyed with her skirt. “I dragged you along to the stables to find a pack horse for our trip, but I didn’t think about whether Nendis was coming until she asked me herself,” she confessed.

Amrothos laughed properly at that. “Oh, sis.” He sat up and hugged her. “You’re perfect to me.”

 

* * *

 

At midmorning, the sound of clear horns wafted up from below. Lothíriel ran over to look out of Amrothos’s east-facing window. The company of Rohan came to a stop a little ways away from King Elessar’s entourage, where Imrahil’s banner flapped behind the king’s. Aragorn’s crown glinted in the sun as he rode forward. A rider from Rohan rode up to greet him, a horsetail flowing from his helm. The two men grasped arms in greeting.

“That must be King Éomer,” Lothíriel said.

Amrothos, now dressed, came over to join her. “That seems about right.” He leaned out to look down at the other levels of the city and gave a low whistle. “Look at those crowds! This place used to be practically empty. It will take hours for them to reach the Citadel. Come on, Lothí. I could do with a better distraction than a dull view.” He pushed off the windowsill and headed out.

Lothíriel privately thought that she could do with a nap after the hard work of wheedling Amrothos out of bed, but she only sighed and looked over the crowd at the city gate one last time before following her brother. Compared to how it would have looked if she were at the gates, it was a dull view indeed.

On their way downstairs, they saw Alphros and his nursemaid coming in from a walk. Alphros ran towards them with a few flowers clutched in his fist. Lothíriel knelt to give her nephew a hug.

“Hi, Lotty, hi, Amrotos,” Alphros said. “Ada and Nana are out. Come play?”

“Of course,” Amrothos said. He swung Alphros onto his hip and headed back up the stairs. Halfway up, he turned back. “Ernil, bring some bread and tea up to the nursery. Come on, Lothí.” Amrothos ran the rest of the way up and out of sight.

The nursemaid looked baffled. Men of Lothíriel’s class almost never ate before lunch. Amrothos often ignored the custom, but he was generally more discreet about it. Lothíriel took pity on Ernil.

“Amrothos is not feeling well this morning,” she explained. “He’s getting over a headache.” Ernil’s lips twitched; Lothíriel smiled. “I suppose playing with Alphros isn’t the wisest thing to do, but we’re all slaves to our little prince, aren’t we?”

Ernil smiled and bowed. “We are indeed, my lady.” She headed off to the kitchens.

Lothíriel went back upstairs and paused outside her room. She would have liked to lie down, but she knew that her brother and nephew were waiting. Well, at least the nursery faced the street. When the royal procession rode by, she would be able to see it.

When she opened the nursery door, Amrothos grinned up at her from his seat on the floor. “You took your time,” he said. Lothíriel pulled a low stool over. Alphros carried a bag over from the corner and dumped the tiles in front of his uncle.

“We’re doing a puzzle,” Alphros announced. Lothíriel, who had always hated puzzles, gave Amrothos a pained look, which he ignored. Alphros squatted down and picked up a tile, and Amrothos began to describe the tile out loud. Lothíriel sighed.

Amrothos had always been more patient with children. He’d been five when she was born and already smarter than most of his peers, according to their middle brother Erchirion. Amrothos had no patience for most people who weren’t as clever as himself, but if you were young enough, he was perfectly happy to explain patiently until you understood. Lothíriel, on the other hand, could only sit with a toddler for so long before getting restless. Once they had thoughts of their own, she did better. She couldn’t wait for Alphros to have his own opinions.

Of course, she also had a sneaking suspicion that Amrothos was so patient with Alphros because he enjoyed the attention of someone who didn’t know the difference between nice and perfect. She wondered if her brother’s kindness to her in their youth had been in part to hide his flaws. If so, he’d failed spectacularly—but she loved him all the same.

Alphros matched his first two tiles.

“Very nice!” Amrothos said. He prodded Lothíriel’s foot. “Isn’t our nephew clever?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Very.” She ruffled her nephew’s dark hair. “Much too clever to need my help.” Amrothos rolled his eyes. Lothíriel stood up and stretched, smiling. “I think I’ll get a book.” At Alphros’s alarmed look, she added, “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll be right back.”

As she went down the hall, she passed Ernil holding a tray with tea, bread, and cheese. Lothíriel nodded gratefully and carried on to her room, where she grabbed _Of the Fall of Arnor_. She had only a few chapters left; she hoped to finish it before leaving for Rohan.

Once she got back to the nursery, she settled onto a low couch by the window. Ernil had taken her stool and was helping Alphros with the puzzle; Amrothos was munching on bread and cheese. Lothíriel opened her book.

She read until Nendis burst in, red-faced with flyaway hair. Even when she bowed she seemed to be bouncing.

“They’ve just come up to the Sixth Level!”

Lothíriel rushed over to the window and pulled the sheer curtains aside. The street was lined with people, most of them servants. All of the neighbors who were in the city were at their windows too; Lothíriel nodded to the family across the street with a blush and smile. Nendis joined her at the window, eyes sparkling.

Alphros tugged on her skirt; she looked down at him and he raised his arms. Lothíriel bent to pick her nephew up. Amrothos was still sprawled on the ground, although they had moved on from the puzzle. Her brother was stacking Alphros’s carved animals much higher than Alphros could. Lothíriel turned back to the street, waiting. She shifted Alphros to her other hip and back before she saw the crowd.

“Amrothos, come here,” she ordered. Amrothos scrambled up and joined them, although he stood partly behind the curtain. Ernil followed Amrothos and took Alphros from Lothíriel; the nursemaid went to stand by Nendis at the other side of the window. The five of them looked out together.

First came three guards, the middle of which held King Elessar’s black banner. And then came the two kings. Elessar was on the closer side of the street and looked as regal as ever. Lothíriel was surprised at the obvious pleasure on her king’s face. It seemed everyone was delighted that the Rohirrim had come.

King Éomer was delighted, too. Lothíriel stared at the king of Rohan with interest. He was tall; even seated, he looked as tall as Elessar. He had a closely trimmed beard, but his bright smile made him seem young. His helmet covered his forehead, nose, and much of his cheeks; the nose guard was a golden horse’s head. His leather armor looked polished enough to see a reflection in, and his rich cloak was dark green with an intricate gold border.

Behind the two kings, Lothíriel’s father rode with Faramir. The rest of her family followed, along with more guards and more Rohirrim. Nendis and Ernil whispered together, but Lothíriel didn’t know if they spoke of kings or soldiers.

Amrothos nudged her. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Of Éomer, of course. Is he what you expected?”

“I didn’t expect anything,” she said. She looked again; Éomer was almost at the palazzo. “He’s tall,” she observed.

Amrothos laughed.

At the sound, Éomer glanced up and caught her eye. His smile faltered. Lothíriel bowed her head briefly, keeping her eyes on him. They only looked at each other for a brief moment, but long enough for her to realize how young he was. He must have been younger than Elphir.

Éomer looked over and saw Amrothos, and he grinned widely and nodded before his horse carried him past the palazzo.

Amrothos quickly drew back when Imrahil looked up at them; Lothíriel bowed low to her father and waved discreetly to Rían riding behind. The rest of the procession went by quickly, and Lothíriel was left at the window watching everyone on the street stream back to their homes.

She had reservations about her king. He was a foreign man with a foreign wife, and he had not lived in Gondor for decades before his recent return. But he was mature, experienced—he’d spent years as a leader of his northern people and as a warrior all over Middle-earth. How old was King Éomer? What experience did he have? She wondered what his people thought of him.

After a few minutes, Amrothos came back to the window. “How upset are you that you missed it?” he murmured.

“I’m not,” Lothíriel said, and she was a little surprised that it was true. “It would have been nice to go down to the city gates, but it would have been a slow ride both ways. And I’ve almost finished my book, and I got to watch you make a fool of yourself with Alphros out of the corner of my eye.” She glanced aside; Ernil and Alphros were at the other end of the room. “And I heard you laugh.”

Amrothos hugged her. Lothíriel smiled into his shoulder.

Things _were_ getting better.

 

* * *

  

The welcome feast for the Rohirrim was due to begin in an hour; Lothíriel left Amrothos with Alphros and Ernil. Nendis followed her back to her room. Lothíriel sat down to let Nendis fix her hair.

Lothíriel closed her eyes as Nendis took off the hairnet. Her hair fell in a thick mass around her shoulders. Nendis’s deft fingers were quick and precise, and soon enough Lothíriel’s hair was wound up in a mass of coils and braids. Nendis put in the last of the jeweled pins. Lothíriel shook her head to make sure everything was secure.

“Thank you, Nendis,” she said. Nendis bowed, pleased, and opened the door for Lothíriel.

Lothíriel headed downstairs. Elphir and Rían were in the foyer with Alphros and Ernil. Rían met Lothíriel at the bottom of the stairs and gave her a hug.

“Elphir told me what happened this morning,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. How is Amrothos?”

Lothíriel glanced at her brother. Elphir was looking fondly at his son. “Amrothos is doing much better. We spent most of the morning with Alphros. Haven’t you seen him?”

“No,” Rían said. “We only got back a short time ago. Prince Imrahil went up to speak with him as soon as we got in, and Ernil brought Alphros down.”

Lothíriel gulped. What was her father saying to Amrothos? What was Amrothos saying to her father? “Excuse me.” She turned to go back upstairs, but Rían grabbed her hand.

“Lothíriel, don’t.”

Lothíriel pulled away and ran up the stairs.

She didn’t blame Rían for trying to stop her. When Elphir had plighted his troth to Rían, Prince Imrahil had been delighted. Rían was the daughter of one of the prince’s advisors, and after Lothíriel’s mother had died, Rían had been her constant companion. She had been as sweet and gentle then as she was now. But Imrahil had expected his daughter-in-law to be as duty-bound and steadfast as his eldest son. Her retiring manner was as unwelcome to him as Amrothos’s current malady was to Elphir. Rían had withstood Imrahil’s displeasure for months, and she didn’t want Lothíriel to bear the brunt of it as she did.

But Lothíriel didn’t think her father would scold or punish her for wanting to see Amrothos. Besides, she could always pretend she hadn’t gone downstairs at all. How would she have known that her father was with him?

She paused at the nursery door before going in, and she blushed when her father and Amrothos turned to her. Imrahil stood straight in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back; Amrothos sat on the low stool, shoulders hunched and mouth twisted. Lothíriel suddenly regretted coming in.

“Welcome back, Ada,” she said. “I—excuse me.” She bowed and turned to go.

“Stay, daughter.” Imrahil gave her an appraising look. “You were looking forward to joining us. I’m sorry you did not.”

Lothíriel flushed and glanced at Amrothos, who was looking at the floor. “I’m sorry I missed it, too, but Amrothos is as important to me as any king.” Imrahil’s mouth twitched, though she couldn’t tell if he was hiding a smile or a frown.

“In that case, I am sure you will not mind bringing Amrothos to the Houses of Healing tomorrow. You shall make sure he is seen by the Warden himself.”

Amrothos jerked his head up, teeth clenched, but he was silent. Lothíriel was stunned. She was glad she was prepared for the journey to Rohan—who knew how long such an errand might take? She’d only ever been to the Houses of Healing to deliver charity and visit the sick. Would she be stuck in the sickroom all day?

Whatever happened, she had no choice. She bowed and said, “Yes, Ada.”

Imrahil nodded curtly. “Good.” He straightened his sleeves. “The welcome feast will begin soon. I shall meet you in the foyer.” He swept out of the room with an unreadable expression; Lothíriel swallowed when he passed close by her.

Once their father had gone, Amrothos put his head in his hands. “Sis, I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he groaned. Lothíriel squatted next to him. She reached out to take his hand, but he pulled away. She stood up, clenching her fists in her skirts.

“Just last night you said yourself you’re not well,” she scolded.

Amrothos glared up at her, his mouth set in a thin line. “I didn’t ask for this,” he snapped. “This—this _thing_ came to me. Why me? Why no one else?”

“I don’t know the enemy’s mind, Amrothos!” Lothíriel threw up her hands. “Who knows, maybe Sauron the terrible saw your ferocious backswing and it put fear into his heart.”

Amrothos ignored her. “And now I have to go to the Houses of Healing—as if they know anything about healing! The Warden thought the herb that saved our cousin’s life was a weed!”

She crossed her arms. “That’s your complaint? Don’t be ridiculous. No one is keeping you from doing the things you like. No one is sending you back to war. No one is blaming you for your malady—well, Ada isn’t anyway. All he wants you to do is visit an old man and take whatever herbs and potions he wants to give you. Even if it does nothing, it can’t hurt. And the _thing_ you’re dealing with isn’t fun for the rest of us, either. Don’t sneer at something that might help.”

Lothíriel stormed away. She just didn’t understand Amrothos! Didn’t he want to get better? Didn’t he see how much pain he was causing?

She paused at the doorway, passed a hand over her eyes, and turned back.

Amrothos was still hunched on the stool, but he had covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. Lothíriel’s frustration melted; she rushed over and wrapped her arms around her brother.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “Shh, shh.” She pet his hair and rocked them gently back and forth. What was she thinking? Whatever pain Amrothos was giving to others, it was nothing compared with what he must be going through himself.

Once he stopped shaking, Amrothos took a quavering breath and drew away, but caught her hands in his and kissed them. Lothíriel squeezed his hands and smoothed his short dark hair over his forehead. He let her pull him up, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Come on,” she said. “We don’t want to keep the kings waiting.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In three days, as the King had said, Éomer of Rohan came riding to the City, and with him came an éored of the fairest knights of the Mark. He was welcomed; and when they sat all at table in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, he beheld the beauty of the ladies that he saw and was filled with great wonder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta reader @brynnmcclean, whose comments and feedback make going through previous chapters a much more entertaining ride than if it was just my normal prose <3  
> I hope you're all having a lovely day.

The House of Dol Amroth was bowed into the great hall of Merethrond by two Guards of the Citadel, and Lothíriel stopped at the threshold with a gasp. Amrothos rolled his eyes at her and pulled her along.

She’d never seen so many people in one room. It was impossible to estimate how many were sitting and standing and moving in the hall. Soldiers, servants, guests… The rumble of voices flooded her ears. Compared to how empty the hall had been when she’d joined King Elessar for lunch four days ago, the air itself seemed to have gained a life of its own.

Amrothos led her down the center aisle to the dais behind their father, Elphir, and Rían. Four rows of tables ran the length of the hall, most of them already full. Lothíriel stared around at the soldiers seated near the door. Many were Rohirrim with thick beards and golden braids; others were smooth-cheeked, dark-haired Guards of the Citadel or members of King Elessar’s Grey Company. A half-dozen of her father’s Swan Knights rose to salute their liege as he passed; Imrahil nodded back and kept moving.

The tables nearest the dais were full of nobles and other folk of Minas Tirith. Lothíriel spotted familiar faces from the Sixth Level, from lords and their ladies to wealthy merchants and ambassadors from the north. She turned to look across the crowd.

Amrothos squeezed her arm sharply and hissed, “Come on, sis.”

She flinched and swept up the dais steps ahead of him. Her father was making his way around the king’s long table to greet Faramir and Lord Húrin, Warden of the Keys. A servant approached Lothíriel and her siblings and led them to a round table set for eight to the right of the king’s table; Lothíriel sat between Amrothos and Rían, facing the room. She had barely settled in her chair before a door to her right opened.

Lothíriel turned, lips parted, as she saw Queen Arwen step in. Lothíriel and her siblings stood for the queen, and the rest of the room followed suit. Lothíriel ducked her head respectfully when Arwen smiled at her. The queen was radiant, her white skin glowing and her gray eyes shining. A host of elves came behind her, but only two as beautiful as herself. The dark-haired male, who looked so like Arwen, must be her father; his companion must be the Lady Galadriel, with hair of silver-gold and a face as serene as the sun.

Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and a silver-haired elf (from his place in the party, Lothíriel guessed he was Galadriel’s husband) joined the queen at the high table. Lothíriel’s table was filled in with the queen’s brothers and two elven maidens. The maidens sat by Elphir. Elladan and Elrohir greeted Amrothos warmly before turning to Lothíriel.

“Hello again, princess,” Elladan said. “You haven’t met Elrohir yet, but here he is.”

Elrohir bowed, hand over his heart, and Lothíriel dipped her chin in return. “Princess, it’s a pleasure.”

Aside from his longer hair, Elrohir looked identical to his brother. They were dressed in the same style, velvet vests over long tunics in similar colors. As Lothíriel expected, Elladan took the seat next to Amrothos.

A few minutes of vague pleasantries passed before a herald came to the foot of the dais and banged his long spear on the ground for silence. The hush, once it came, seemed unnatural for such a crowd.

“Behold King Elessar! Behold King Éomer of Rohan!”

As the doors opened for the kings, heads swiveled and benches scraped against the floor as everyone surged to their feet. The hall was large enough and the light outside bright enough that Lothíriel had to squint to even tell who was who. (The kings were the same height after all, she realized.) Elessar’s winged crown gave him away before anything else; Éomer had only a circlet. They both were richly dressed, though Elessar’s gray robes were solemn next to the rich green and red that Éomer wore.

The two kings made their way up the dais steps and headed around the king’s table; Elessar passed close by Elphir and Rían, who ducked their heads at the king. Éomer went the other way, passing by the round table where the Eight Companions sat together. The two kings sat, and the room filled back up with the sound of scraping benches and deep voices and the hum of many contented people.

As an army of servants began bringing out large jugs of wine and beer, Lothíriel turned to Elladan and Elrohir. “Have you seen much of Rohan and its people?” she asked.

Elladan shrugged. “We visited once, but that was long ago.”

“We rode through Rohan with Aragorn mere months ago, and again when we came back,” Elrohir reminded him. To Lothíriel, he said, “We rode with such haste that we noticed little, but the land is wild and beautiful, and the welcome is warm even in dark days.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “We met no enemies in Rohan, only friends.”

“I see.” Lothíriel sat back, a finger on her chin. Wartime wasn’t the best time to get an idea of a people, but she was glad to know that the people of Rohan were gracious even to strangers. Not that she had any real concern about her future hosts, but the reassurance was fortifying.

A servant took her glass and poured her red wine, and Lothíriel thanked him absently before taking a sip. The elven maids were cheerfully flirting with Elphir to her left, and Rían was sitting back, amused. She caught Lothíriel’s eye and leaned over to whisper, “He looks at home among these elves, doesn’t he?”

Lothíriel watched her oldest brother. He had their father’s princely bearing and a long smooth face. He looked almost as ageless as Elladan and Elrohir. His usually stern demeanor was softened to something like serenity under the eyes of his two fair neighbors.

“Yes, he does,” she murmured. She flashed Rían a smile, but dropped it once her sister turned away. Why didn’t anyone ever say such things about her?

She spotted the herald coming and sat up straight, pushing aside her petty vain thoughts. Rían followed her gaze and quirked an eyebrow as the herald descended on them. Amrothos cut off mid-sentence as the herald cleared his throat.

“Prince Elphir, Lady Rían, Prince Amrothos, Princess Lothíriel,” he said, bowing. “If you would be so good as to come with me.”

Elphir surged to his feet and took Rían’s arm. Amrothos stretched as he stood, grinning at the identical pained looks on his siblings’ faces, and tucked Lothíriel’s arm through his. The herald brought them to the front of the king’s table, right where Elessar and Éomer sat.

“My lords, my queen, here is Prince Elphir, the Lady Rían, Prince Amrothos, and Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

They all ducked their heads in unison.

Éomer grinned at Lothíriel’s brothers. “Elphir, Amrothos, it’s good to see you.” He leaned forward and clasped their hands warmly.

Lothíriel slid her arm out from Amrothos’s and edged towards Queen Arwen. “My queen,” she murmured. Arwen smiled and extended her white hand, which Lothíriel kissed. “I hope you are well.”

“Very well, thank you.”

Amrothos took Lothíriel’s elbow and, with a deep bow to the queen, steered her past Elessar to Éomer, who sat between her king and her father. Elphir and Rían had strayed a few seats down to talk with Faramir.

Imrahil nodded to Lothíriel and pressed Éomer’s arm. Lothíriel followed Éomer’s glance to Queen Arwen and a grin rose unbidden to her face. No one was immune to her queen’s beauty. When she caught Éomer’s eye upon looking back, he looked almost apologetic.

Imrahil cleared his throat. “Éomer, here is my daughter, Lothíriel.”

“Princess, I am honored,” Éomer said. He reached out his hand to her as he had done to her brothers. Lothíriel blinked before taking it. His hand was broad and very warm.

“As am I,” Lothíriel said. She dropped his hand and bowed. “You and your people saved all of us. Thank you.”

Before Éomer could say anything, Amrothos leaned in, grinning cheekily. “You’re welcome!”

She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but Éomer was amused by her reaction all the same. To Amrothos, she said, “And thank you too, then, since you insist.”

“I do,” Amrothos said. He quieted at Imarhil’s quelling look.

Éomer leaned forward and said to Lothíriel, “Your family are as much to thank as myself. Your brothers fought bravely and well, and your father’s counsel kept Minas Tirith safe even as we marched on Mordor. No man could wish for better companions at such a time.”

Her chest swelled with pride, and her polite smile grew genuine and fond. “No tale of your heroism could recommend you to me half as well as what you just said.” At her father’s sudden frown, she pulled back a little. She hadn’t meant to minimize his deeds in the war… Had she?

But Éomer seemed pleased. He put his hand to his heart and bowed in his seat. “Your words do you credit.”

“My daughter’s actions do her more credit than any amount of her family pride,” Imrahil said. At Éomer’s questioning look, Imrahil added, “Lothíriel ruled in Belfalas while my sons and I were away. She kept the people safe and calm when Corsairs tried to capture Dol Amroth.” He smiled at Lothíriel, but his gaze slid to Éomer as he spoke. “She is a blessing from the Valar.”

Lothíriel felt trapped, and she wasn’t sure why. She bowed deeply to her father and pressed against Amrothos, who understood her instantly.

“Come, sis, they’re bringing out the food. Éomer, it’s good to see you again. Excuse us, father, my lords.” Amrothos sketched a bow and let Lothíriel steer him away.

Once they made it back to their table, Amrothos pulled Lothíriel chair out for her. He leaned over to whisper, “What’s the matter, sis?”

Lothíriel hesitated, and she wondered at her discomfort. Praise from her father was a rare gift. His confidence in her had been made so clear that evening in his study that Lothíriel didn’t expect to hear any similar sentiments from him for weeks at least. Her brother Erchirion had explained over a decade ago that their father feared the effects of too much praise, and yet here he was, calling her a blessing from the Valar. In public, no less!

Her breath hitched. The praise wasn’t for _her_ benefit, it was for Éomer’s. Lothíriel frowned deeply. Imrahil was… showing off? Well, even if her father meant what he’d said, Lothíriel hated that she had been put on display like some sort of prize horse.

“Sis?” Amrothos put a light hand on hers.

She glanced around the table. Elladan stared elsewhere studiously, but Lothíriel remembered his keen hearing. “Nothing… I’m hungry, that’s all.” She sipped her wine serenely.

Amrothos looked at her sideways as he served her more beef than she could have eaten even if she _was_ starving. “Enjoy.”

Elladan laughed and turned to Lothíriel. “Princess, I understand your reluctance to speak,” he said. He reached across Amrothos to squeeze her hand. “Amrothos, don’t press your sister for details here, for she’d be obliged to tell you and I’d be obliged to hear.”

“And obliged to tell your own sister, hm?” Amrothos asked. He settled back, satisfied at last with his ratio of broth to meatballs.

“Of course. I’d tell Arwen anything, if I thought she’d want to know it. Or if it might amuse her. Though I wouldn’t say _obliged_. She might be queen, but I am not her subject.” He looked a little wistful, and said, “I am her brother, but not her servant.”

Lothíriel sighed and picked up her spoon. “No indeed.”

As she ate, she found herself hardly spoken to. Amrothos was chatty enough for two, and Rían and Elphir to her left were telling the elven maids about Dol Amroth. They listened, eyes shining, as Rían spoke of the wheeling gulls and the tidal pools hidden along the cliffs. Elphir chimed in with stories of chasing corsair ships, and the maidens quivered with delighted anticipation.

Lothíriel’s mind wandered.

Right now, her father was her liege lord. She was, in some ways, her father’s servant. And one day, Elphir would be her liege. She glanced at her brother from behind her eyelashes. He was admired wherever he was known for his solemn honest love of home and country, and yet Lothíriel chafed at the idea of being subservient to him. To her father, she could easily bow her head; to Elphir…

Aunt Ivriniel was older than her father, and her father had always taken Ivriniel’s advice to heart. But Lothíriel was twelve years younger than Elphir. She could not imagine a day when Elphir would listen to her without the put-on patience he still used, and she could not imagine a day when she wouldn’t want to tell him what the best thing was to do.

Not for the first time, she wished she was the oldest.

“You’re very quiet today, Princess,” Elrohir said, cutting through her thoughts. “What occupies your mind?”

Lothíriel set down her spoon. She ran her finger along the edge of the table, and finally said, “I was wondering what it would be like if I had been born first.”

Amrothos laughed. “Why, you would be the boss of us all! We would quiver under the weight of your tyranny.”

Lothíriel arched her brow. “What if I were a man?”

“You would be incredible,” Amrothos said. Lothíriel was taken aback by his serious tone; she had expected a joke from him. He turned to Elladan and Elrohir. “If Lothíriel were a man, she would have conquered all of Middle-earth by now.”

Lothíriel giggled. However serious he had been in calling her incredible, Amrothos was ridiculous. She knew she was no hero, and she doubted she would have been one even if she had been an eldest son. Besides, conquering all of Middle-earth would have meant conquering the whole of Gondor, and that would have meant ousting her uncle Denethor… She sobered.

“I don’t know about that,” she said.

“No, you’re right,” Amrothos said. “You just would have annexed South Gondor and cleansed Mordor of evil. Nothing so splendid as world domination.”

Lothíriel smiled absently and looked down at her lap. None of her hopes and dreams involved reconquering war-torn regions. That was King Elessar’s plan, as far as she could tell. Arnor wasn’t going to sort itself out.

No, Lothíriel only wanted to have a say, to be visibly important, and to be useful. She didn’t mind if she only ever helped rule a small corner, as long as everyone could see and admire her corner, and how well she ruled it, and hopeless they’d be if she ever left.

But then again, she remembered her father’s praise of her to King Éomer, and she shuddered. She didn’t want her accomplishments to be something for her father to dangle in front of his friends. She wanted her accomplishments to be something everyone already knew. She huffed, bothered, and then she felt a _tug_ on her attention and she turned to the king’s table, where she could just see Faramir leaning forward a little, eyes on her as he drank deep.

Lothíriel stood up abruptly. “Excuse me,” she said, for the whole table stared at her, “my cousin wants me.”

She slipped away before anyone could say anything and made her way behind the king’s table. Faramir sat back in his chair as she approached. She leaned on his arm and kissed his cheek.

“Mae govannen, Faramir,” she said.

Imrahil, directly next to Faramir, gave her a brief smile before turning back to his conversation with Éomer. Faramir reached up and gripped her hand warmly.

“Lothíriel, will you come be useful for me tomorrow? I could use your help before we all leave.” Faramir smiled, his gray eyes bright.

“I’d love to,” she blurted. “When?”

“In the morning, if you’re free.”

Before she could respond, Imrahil gave a low cough. Of course— she had to go with Amrothos to the Houses of Healing. Her heart sank. It never did work out, did it? “I’m sorry,” she told Faramir. “I just remembered I’ll be busy tomorrow morning.” She couldn’t help a glance down the length of the dais to her own table, where Amrothos in particular watched her curiously. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

As she looked away from her brother, she caught Éomer’s eye. He blushed and looked back at her father. Lothíriel swallowed, uncomfortable both at Éomer’s interest and at her father’s nonchalance about Éomer’s inattention. She was his friend’s daughter; that was enough. She turned her back to both of them.

“Where will you be?” Faramir asked.

Lothíriel hesitated, but under her cousin’s steady gaze her embarrassment felt foolish. “The Houses of Healing.”

“You’re not unwell, are you?” His concern was clear, although it seemed a silly worry to Lothíriel.

“I am well,” she assured him. “It’s— others are unwell. I’m doing very well.” She smiled and held out her hands. “You can see I am well, surely.” Faramir nodded his concession, and Lothíriel sighed and leaned heavily against his shoulder. “Oh, I wish I could help you tomorrow. If I’m able, perhaps I could join you in the afternoon?”

Faramir nodded and squeezed her hands. “I will send a message to your house, and perhaps we shall meet again tomorrow. If not, I’m sure there will be many occasions for us to chat on the road to Edoras.”

Lothíriel smiled, kissed her cousin again, and went back to her table.

Amrothos leaned over and asked, “What did he want?”

She fairly beamed. “He wanted my help.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel has an unexpected encounter at the Houses of Healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta reader @brynnmclean for combing through this with a very fine-toothed comb and giving it the hollywood makeover it deserves. Belle of the ball, folks!

_T.A. 3019  
_ _19 July_

Amrothos stalked south along the main street of the Sixth Level, and Lothíriel practically had to skip to keep up with him. Her brother clutched a rolled page in his hand; Imrahil had instructed him to hand it directly to the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel had been told in no uncertain terms that she was not to let Amrothos out of her sight until her father’s letter had been delivered.

It was only a few hundred meters— not even a five minute walk— from their palazzo to the Houses of Healing. Before Amrothos went inside the gate, he paused, and Lothíriel grabbed his hand tight. He looked down at her wryly. “What’s the matter, sis?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” she snapped. “Now that you aren’t running, at least.”

Amrothos sighed and tucked her hand into his elbow. He fingered the wax seal on their father’s letter as they walked through the lawn to the infirmary door, which was flung wide. It was a beautiful day, Lothíriel realized, with a clear bright sky.

Inside, a porter leapt up from his small, cluttered desk as soon as he saw them. “My lord, my lady, good morning. How may I be of service?”

Amrothos held out his letter, but pulled it back before the porter could take it. “My father instructs me to personally deliver this into the hands of your Warden.” He looked around with feigned curiosity. “Perhaps you could tell us the way?”

Lothíriel jabbed her fingers into Amrothos’s side and turned to the porter. “Good morning. Our father, Prince Imrahil, has sent us here. I’m sure your master is a busy man, but...” She trailed off, and as expected, the porter bowed low. When he rose, he straightened to attention.

“Prince Imrahil! Forgive me, prince, princess,” he said. “Please, right this way.”

The siblings followed the porter down a long hallway with many closed doors until the very end, where a double door was thrown open into a well-lit room. The porter knocked on the wall, and Lothíriel spotted a short man bent over his desk, twirling a dried herb between his fingers and holding a stick of charcoal in his other hand.

“Come in,” said the Warden, without glancing up from his work.

“Warden, we have honored guests,” the porter said. He gave a little sigh at his master’s inattention. “Here are two children of Imrahil of Dol Amroth, with a letter from the prince.”

The Warden finally looked up, his round face and high forehead lending him a younger look than his position suggested. He wiped his hands hastily on a smudged cloth.

“Here is my father’s letter.” Amrothos dropped into one of the seats in front of the Warden’s large desk and leaned forward to inspect the Warden’s work as he handed off the letter. “That’s very good,” he noted. “Look, Lothí.”

Lothíriel edged forward and bowed her head at the Warden, who looked at them with some bemusement as he cracked open the seal on Imrahil’s letter. The Warden’s work was— well, Lothíriel wasn’t sure if it was work. There were many sketches of herbs, flowers, and leaves on the large page, and despite her weak knowledge of herb-lore, she recognized quite a few plants.

“Lovely,” she said, leaning on Amrothos’s shoulders. The drawings were accurate, but they weren’t beautiful. Lothíriel had never had much of an eye for the outdoors. Except for the sea, but that was something else entirely. And you couldn’t capture the essence of the sea with a stick of charcoal.

When the Warden finished with the letter, he rolled it carefully. Amrothos tensed, but the Warden turned first to Lothíriel.

“Princess, the lawns hereabout are very pleasant. Gimlân, perhaps you would show the princess the way.”

The porter came in and bowed, and gestured to the door with his arm. Lothíriel glanced at Amrothos’s bright eyes and clenched jaw, and her stomach sank. However much she wanted to be there for her brother, her father clearly had other ideas. She squeezed Amrothos’s shoulder and followed Gimlân out of the Warden’s office. The long hallway seemed longer than before, now that Amrothos was alone at the other end. Gimlân brought Lothíriel past his desk in the infirmary’s antechamber. They paused together under the entry’s awning.

“It’s a lovely day,” Gimlân said. “You should not be shut up.”

Lothíriel pursed her lips, a frisson of annoyance sparking through her. Couldn’t he tell she’d rather be with her brother? A clear sky wasn’t going to make that go away.

The porter bowed and went back to his little desk, and Lothíriel was left to wander through the lawns. She looked southeast over the white outer wall, across the Pelennor Fields to the Anduin, where she could make out a few boats along the river. She sighed. This high up in the city, there was almost always a breeze, but it was nothing like the salty sea-breeze at Dol Amroth.

What she needed was something to do. Lothíriel made her way back to the street. A few apothecaries were having a surprisingly lively discussion near the Citadel gate, and more than one bunch of soldiers went by while she kept an eye out for— aha. She caught the attention of a loitering boy, perhaps ten years old, and bade him go fetch a book from her house.

“I’ll give you this—” she held up a silver coin— “to ask for Nendis at the house of Dol Amroth to fetch the princess’s book, and bring it back to me in the gardens.”

The boy was off like a shot, and Lothíriel went back to her wandering. The lawns were pleasant enough, if rather contrived. The uniformity was unlike the wild beaches she liked exploring by Dol Amroth, but it was sedate, with no danger of stepping in a puddle or slipping into a tide pool. And there were fountains, too. She stopped at one, near the outer wall, which had a statue of Estë, the Gentle. Lothíriel looked at the serene, praying Vala. Perhaps she should pray for Amrothos.

She glanced around; no one was nearby. Lothíriel knelt there on the grass and lifted her hands over closed eyes. She thought hard about Amrothos before the war— sarcastic, thoughtful, temperamental, bold. Unafraid of anything except their father’s wrath, capable of anything except ambition. She thought of him now, with dark circles under his eyes, smiles just a shade false, sadness and fear clinging to him like a second skin. She wanted the brother from before, laughing and teasing and strong. She whispered a prayer to Estë to restore him.

She passed her hands across her face and sat back on her heels, opening her eyes with a sigh. Estë had done little enough for her mother, all those years ago. Perhaps she would do more now for Amrothos.

“Princess Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel twisted around and gaped.

Éomer, king of Rohan, was hardly ten steps away, towering over her as she knelt on the grass. What in Middle-earth was _he_ doing here?

“Hail, King Éomer,” she managed.

Éomer strode over and offered a hand, which she took. As before, his hand was very warm. Lothíriel stood on her own, but Éomer pulled on her hand to help her up. She stumbled. She flushed and dropped his hand. Did he think she couldn’t get to her feet on her own, or was it simply customary to be more forceful in Rohan?

He murmured an apology and watched her smooth out her skirts. He was dressed much more simply than yesterday, with just a velvet tunic over his shirt and trousers. He had on no circlet today, nor even a cloak.

Lothíriel wasn’t sure what to say, or even what language to speak. Did Éomer know Sindarin beyond the common courtesies? Better not to risk it. In Westron, she ventured, “I hope you are not unwell?”

“No, I am well.” He looked over her shoulder at the fountain. He seemed flustered, though Lothíriel was doing her best not to gape. “I came to talk to you.”

She blinked. He wanted to talk to her? Why? Surely any of his questions would be better put to her father. And why here, of all places? “How may I be of service?”

Éomer’s smile was a little pained. “Only to help me ease my mind. I saw you in talk with your cousin last night.”

Was that how he knew to find her here? She was so baffled she just stared at him.

“What kind of a man is Faramir?” Éomer blurted. He shifted his weight nervously and looked at her intently. “How does he treat you?”

Lothíriel was suddenly reminded of the time that Erchirion grilled her about Rían before she married Elphir. Erchirion had been fostered in Pelargir, and knew Rían little compared to the rest of his siblings. He’d always been protective of his siblings, even though he lived apart from them for years, and he’d gone to almost everyone from Imrahil to the servants to get a good picture of the woman his brother wanted to marry.

She let out a slow breath. At last, clarity. Éomer was worried for his sister. Of course. What other reason would he have for seeking her out?

“I’m happy to tell you what I think, but I don’t know him as well as my father and brothers. Elphir and he are nearly the same age; they played together as children. I’m only a younger cousin.”

Éomer nodded. “I’ve heard what Imrahil and Elphir think, but… I have known many who polish their thoughts to suit the listener, even when the listener is a friend. Your father and brothers say only good things, things I would want to hear. But you…” He took a step towards her and softened his tone. “You spoke freely yesterday.” With a smile, he added, “Many men would still be nursing their pride to hear that compliments to a lady’s family were more to her taste than their heroic deeds.”

Lothíriel blushed. “I meant no offense—”

Éomer waved away any apology. “I understood you then, and I hope you understand me now. Our families are worth honoring. And protecting.” He turned aside, looking for words, and finally spun back to her with some consternation. “Your father and brothers know Faramir as a soldier. They see virtues in him that matter in war, in guarding the realm. They have fought together, shared moments of rage and bloodshed. But that is not the Faramir I want to know about.” Éomer opened his hand, looking almost apologetic. “Men are different with women than they are with men.”

No one had ever said that out loud to Lothíriel. She clenched her jaw, and her mouth set in a thin line. Yes, it was true, but did he have to remind her?

“Very true,” she managed. She took a steadying breath and thought of her cousin. Éomer didn’t come here to talk about her. “All right. Here is the truth: Faramir sees everything, but only speaks if you want him to, or if his silence will cause harm. He is courteous, and a scholar, and he is much happier if he is on a path he can follow with his heart. But he is stubborn, and will speak his displeasure wherever it occurs.”

Éomer hummed noncommittally and moved next to her, leaning his hands against the fountain. He stared at the statue of Estë. “Is he often displeased?”

“Not with those who respect him,” Lothíriel said evasively. She didn’t want to talk about what she’d heard of his relationship with her uncle Denethor. “He is not unforgiving. And he is patient, for he puts up with me.” She put on an amusing smile, and when Éomer turned to look at her, he laughed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am relieved. You don’t know what good you’ve done, for they will be betrothed soon and there is little time for me to get the measure of him.”

“Nonsense,” Lothíriel said at once. “He’s coming to Rohan with us. That will be almost a fortnight for you to realize all I’ve told you for yourself.”

“Us?” Éomer was surprised, though he did not seem displeased. “I didn’t know you would be coming.”

“Queen Arwen invited me to join her. I—” Lothíriel paused. It was one thing to tell Nendis of her strange, sudden devotion to the queen, but quite another to try and express it to Éomer, King of Rohan. Nendis knew her well enough to understand that it wasn’t mere political strategizing to get into the queen’s good graces. Éomer… Éomer might not. She didn’t want his good opinion of her colored because of a misunderstanding. No, it was much better to say something simple. “I have never seen Rohan.”

“No indeed.” Éomer stood straight and clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, I shall see what I can do to get to know your cousin better. He does not seem much like his brother, but good men are made in more than one mold.”

Lothíriel put her hand to her mouth and turned her head so Éomer wouldn’t see her reaction. Boromir had passed through Rohan to reach Imladris; he must have crossed paths with Éomer then. She blinked back sudden tears. For every person she met who had seen her cousin on his long final sojourn, Lothíriel felt his memory slipping further away.

But she had no right to be sad now. All the grief now belonged to her queen, and her cousin, and—

And Éomer, who had lost his foster father and king, yet still stood straight and tall.

Lothíriel’s cheeks burned; since she first set eyes on the Rohirrim, she had not thought once about the purpose of their journey. It was just like forgetting about Nendis, but worse, for in this instance there was a man— no, a whole country grieving for their dead king. And she couldn’t blurt out an apology for her thoughtlessness this time either. She took a deep breath to settle herself as Éomer turned back.

He gestured at the statue of Estë. “Is that Ræste?”

“I suppose so. That is Estë, the Gentle. ‘Grey is her raiment; and rest is her gift,’” Lothíriel quoted. She glanced at the city gate and noticed the young boy from before holding a book. “Pardon me,” she said, and ran over. She pulled out the promised coin and held out her hand for her book, but the boy put it behind his back.

“Is that the king of Rohan?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lothíriel said impatiently. She held out the coin and dangled it in front of his eyes, but he danced aside to stare at Éomer, round eyes shining. Lothíriel pulled on his arm. “Give me my book and run along! King Éomer isn’t here to be stared at.”

The boy gaped at her. “You’re a princess! Are you going to marry him?”

“Really!” Face burning, she swiped her book away and tossed the coin behind him, where it clinked on the pavement. He dove for it and gave her one last hopeful look. She scowled, and he ran off at last.

Was she going to marry him, indeed! She shook her head and ran a hand across her cheeks. She was just twenty, hardly a woman by Gondorian reckoning. She was smart and wished she were older, true, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting a husband.

She walked back to Éomer, who was looking out across the Pelennor. He turned to her with a badly disguised grin, and Lothíriel was suddenly afraid he’d heard everything. Her face felt hotter than ever.

“Before you came, I bade him bring my book,” she said quickly. She held it up, and realized it wasn’t _Of the Fall of Arnor_. It was Elphir’s gift for her future hosts, about the history of Rohan. And it wasn’t even in Sindarin— it was in Westron, which meant there was no way Éomer couldn’t tell what it was.

Éomer’s eyebrows went up and he reached for the book automatically. Lothíriel relinquished it with a grimace. So much for not seeming like a political schemer!

“I remember this book,” Éomer said. He thumbed through the first few pages. “Théodred gave it to me.” His voice faltered, and he pushed the book back at Lothíriel.

Her breath caught, and she set the book down on the rim of the fountain. Of course; Éomer had lost his cousin, too, but Prince Théodred had been like his brother, if Elphir was to be believed.

Lothíriel swallowed away her nerves and pressed on Éomer’s arm. He looked down at her, surprised. “I’m sorry,” she said. He nodded, and she added, “Losing people is horrible, and I’m sorry it’s happened to you.”

Éomer squeezed her hand. “Thank you.” He did not look at her.

She wanted to go on, to say that she had felt similar pain, but she held her tongue. He hadn’t asked for her input, and she sensed from his solemn expression that even if he’d asked for her thoughts, they would do him little good. And anyway, he hadn’t asked.

Éomer bowed and took his leave, and Lothíriel watched him go. When he reached the gates, the errand-boy and one of his friends accosted Éomer, but the king of Rohan only patted their heads and strode through them as though they were reeds in the wind.

She started to read.

\---

Amrothos didn’t emerge from his conference with the Warden until noon. He was surly the whole way home. Lothíriel let him go to his room unhindered, but she ran up to her own room once his door had slammed shut. There was no point in trying to speak to her brother. He wouldn’t talk until he wanted to.

She slipped off her shoes and plopped onto her bed, tossing her book aside. She’d been able to read it while at the Houses of Healing, but now that she was home, she could only think of her conversation with Éomer.

His marked interest last night made sense now. It wasn’t because she was so extraordinary or beautiful— who could be considered beautiful when Queen Arwen was not three seats away?— but because of her conversation with Faramir. He must have listened in and overheard her plans.

She might have been honored at Éomer’s request. He had taken the time to seek her out. King Elessar and her father must have high demands for his time, and then there was the more personal business of grieving his uncle, the late King Théoden. But as she mulled it over, she could see that she was a last resort. He had already spoken with her father and Elphir, and merely wanted reassurance. True, she was a woman, only a few years younger than Lady Éowyn, but she was the only woman he might have asked. There were no other young ladies among Faramir’s connections that Éomer might have met yet.

Frustrated, she slapped the bed and sat up. She wasn’t sure if she was glad that Éomer had come to her or not. Being the only option stung, but surely it was an honor that he sought her out anyway. Better than never being consulted at all, she supposed. And… it was a testament to Éomer’s love for his sister, and that wasn’t nothing. Frankly, Lothíriel was more than a little charmed by the trouble he’d taken to ensure his sister’s safety and happiness.

She reached for her book, but instead of finding her place, she flipped to the the back, where she ran her finger down the two lines of Rohan’s kings. Éomer’s name wasn’t listed, only King Théoden’s. Prince Théodred was listed under his father, but no dates were beside his name. But Théodred had died before his father, and Théoden’s body was even now lying cold less than a mile away.

Had Éomer been to the Hallows? Did he cry to see his uncle’s bier, or did he look upon it as unfeelingly as she had seen her mother’s?

How long had it been since she had visited her mother’s tomb?

Lothíriel fell back and curled into a fetal position. She did not cry. She didn’t deserve to.

Others had lost more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Théoden's funeral procession leaves Minas Tirith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my beta reader brynnmclean (ilfirin_estel)! You're always giving me the best feedback anyone could hope for <3
> 
> And thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy!

_T.A. 3019  
_ _20 July_

Lothíriel twisted in her saddle to look back at Minas Tirith. The city gleamed in the morning sun despite its makeshift gate and the occasional collapsed tower, and the banner of the king flapped in the breeze high above it all. So much had happened since she’d first arrived— she’d met the new King and Queen, she’d helped Faramir with his stewardly duties, she’d met the Rohirrim _and_ a perían, she’d planned frantically for a long journey… And she’d seen Amrothos slowly improve. It was hard to believe it had only been a week.

Rían had cried at their parting at the palazzo, which Lothíriel had anticipated. Before she’d gotten to Minas Tirith, she hadn’t seen her sister-in-law since April. They’d been in different cities for nearly three months, and now, after only eight days together, Lothíriel was leaving. It was the most they’d been apart in four years, and Lothíriel wondered how lonely Rían was going to be. Hopefully she would befriend the wives of the other lords ruling in King Elessar’s absence. At least Elphir would be with her. He was the best comfort Rían could ask for.

Elphir and the other lords left in charge had ridden with them all down to the gates of the city early in the morning, where Aragorn formally gave the council command in his stead. Lothíriel had bid a fond farewell to her brother at home, where Elphir had actually sniffed and shed a tear. Later, surrounded by his lordly peers at the gate to city, he had sat on his horse with the same solemn, princely bearing their father bore.

Now, the procession was miles away from Minas Tirith. Théoden’s bier rode ahead of all of the living. One of the periannath, Théoden’s esquire, rode with it; his small chin was set but his shoulders trembled with tears. Behind the bier rode the kings, their closest advisors, Arwen and her people, and the rest of the Companions. Lothíriel and the rest of the Gondorians rode after them, followed by Éomer’s troop of soldiers and the Grey Company. A string of pack horses and wagons bearing goods for Rohan and supplies for the journey brought up the rear, guarded by a few soldiers.

Lothíriel turned to the two riders just behind her. Nendis was sitting uncomfortably on a remarkably placid horse next to Maglon, one of the six Swan Knights of Dol Amroth on the journey. Nendis grimaced as Maglon instructed her; Lothíriel held back to join them.

“Well, Nendis, how are you getting along?”

Nendis shifted in her seat and bowed jerkily; her horse snorted but kept plodding along at its languid pace. Nendis gave the horse a murderous look. “Princess, I wish I could have just ridden with the wagons,” she said crossly. “I’m no horsewoman, but Maglon will keep trying to fix every little thing I do. No wagon driver would make such a fuss, I’m sure.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. For the first time, she wondered at the wisdom of bringing Nendis along. Had the girl lost sense of her purpose on the journey? She wasn’t just a maid anymore. She was her princess’s chief companion, and whining was, at best, inappropriate. Had Lothíriel been too gentle with her? She loved the friendly chats they’d been having. Hopefully Nendis would snap out of her dour mood before Lothíriel had to truly scold her. Their camaraderie was worth more to Lothíriel than a few complaints, but she had to draw a line somewhere.

To be fair, Nendis had only ridden a horse once before, and that was at a hasty lesson the day before. Lothíriel couldn’t really blame her for her discomfort. Forcing a novice to ride in full view of a company of horse-lords was asking a lot. Even servant girls had their pride.

And after a few hours in the saddle, whatever Nendis felt now would seem like nothing. Lothíriel winced. The soreness of riding for hours wasn’t only going to bother Nendis. That, however, was a fact best left unsaid. Lothíriel turned back to Nendis.

“This placid beast is the most tolerant in the entire procession,” Lothíriel said with a smile she hoped was reassuring. “The drivers have other cargo to worry about.”

Maglon chuckled. He was a sturdy middle-aged man with a handsome, weathered face and short hair like Amrothos. “Good morning, Princess,” he said, bowing smoothly in his seat. “Nendis, you’ll be riding as well as a Rochir within a few days. For now, relax! This mare is the gentlest in all of Gondor. Your stiffness would have made any other horse freeze in place!”

Nendis relaxed her arms, but they flopped about bonelessly.

“Hold your arms steady, like for a dance,” Lothíriel suggested.

Nendis looked carefully at her mistress’s posture and tried to mimic it, unsuccessfully. Maglon rubbed his face.

Nendis pursed her lips and tried again. “I can dance well enough,” she said, “but dancing is all movement and music!” She swung an arm in one of the classic patterns of Dol Amroth’s folk dance and quickly retook the reins. “I’m no good at sitting still. Whenever I manage to keep my feet down, my arms tense up again. And the same thing the other way!” Her voice rose with exasperation.

“Nendis, calm down,” Lothíriel said, alarmed. “You’ll learn, and you’ll learn quickly. You’ve always been a fast study. I’ve seen it, and your mother says so, too.”

“Any mother would say so,” Nendis muttered. But she stopped complaining. She seemed more resigned than anything else when Maglon told her yet again to keep her heels down.

“Besides,” Lothíriel said, “I don’t want a whole troop of soldiers between us. I rely on you, Nendis.”

Nendis smiled at last.

“You’re learning at a good pace,” Maglon added. “And everyone blunders now and then. Why, I remember when Princess Lothíriel here was learning to ride. Quite a sight—”

“Thank you, Maglon,” Lothíriel interrupted, and he subsided with an apologetic bow. While Maglon’s bluntness made him a trusted favorite of her father’s despite his low birth, Lothíriel sometimes wished he would hold his tongue. Although he never spoke to offend… and the story of Lothíriel’s early embarrassments on horseback might well soothe Nendis’s unease. She sighed. “Maglon, you may tell Nendis the story, but not until I’m out of earshot!”

She spurred her horse ahead, leaving Maglon and Nendis behind. In a few moments, she caught up with Amrothos, who was riding on his own and eating an apple.

“Eating before noontime again?” Lothíriel asked, reprovingly.

Amrothos shrugged and bit his apple with an obnoxious crunch. “There’s no being discreet on a journey like this one.”

Lothíriel sighed and looked back. Nendis was still riding with Maglon (Nendis was smiling— was Maglon telling her embarrassing stories about Lothíriel’s early riding days? Lothíriel shook her head and looked away from them), the Rohirrim still rode as one with their steeds, and the city still shone in the distance. Well, if nobody else was bothered by her brother’s lack of propriety, she might as well leave it be. When she faced front again, her brother raised a challenging eyebrow. She’d given him grief for this sort of thing before. No doubt he was preparing some rude rebuttal in case she did launch into a diatribe against eating before noon.

“Anything the matter, sis?” he asked.

“Apparently not,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. Yes, definitely better to leave it be. Something so trivial wasn’t worth pursuing. She glanced once more at the city. “I’ve never been this far north of Minas Tirith. I’m just… looking back. To make sure I remember it.”

“We won’t be gone for that long,” Amrothos pointed out. “Two weeks journey, and then perhaps a week in Rohan, and then the trip home. Only a little more than a month.”

Lothíriel snorted. “I haven’t been away from Dol Amroth for even two weeks since I came to Minas Tirith the summer of 3015.”

“Ah yes, a whole four years ago,” Amrothos said, grinning. “Such a long time.”

“It’s a fifth of my life,” Lothíriel pointed out. She pursed her lips, annoyed.

“Such youth!” He reached over to pinch her cheek, but Lothíriel maneuvered Mithroch further out of his reach.

“You can’t make me laugh, not today! This isn’t a pleasure jaunt.”

Amrothos rolled his eyes. “It must be such a hardship to care what people think of you.”

Frustrated, Lothíriel gestured ahead to the bier and lowered her voice. “There’s that, but there’s also your friend. King Théoden was King Éomer’s uncle. If you don’t care for his opinion, that’s your choice, but you ought to at least care for his feelings.”

Her brother sighed. “Enough, enough, you’re right.”

Amrothos didn’t usually back down so quickly; was this an effect of his long meeting with the Warden? She couldn’t tell. But no… perhaps it was that he did care for Éomer. From what little she’d seen of them together, they shared a real camaraderie that was not unlike her relationship with Rían. And it wasn’t as though Amrothos was heartless. He teased her mercilessly, but if he ever truly hurt her, he wasn’t too proud to apologize or stop.

Lothíriel looked to the front of the procession to where Éomer rode by King Elessar. She wondered what they were talking about. Politics? Logistics? Funerals?

Weddings?

She groaned, remembering the page boy from yesterday. She could only pray that his mortifying question wasn’t being spread around the city.

Amrothos gave a low hum of amusement. “What now?”

“Ugh, nothing… I wonder what they’re talking about.” She jerked her head ahead. “The kings, and Ada, and Faramir and all.” She hadn’t told her brother about her conversation with Éomer, nor anyone else for that matter. If her errand boy had gotten the idea that she was going to marry Éomer just because they were having a conversation, it seemed better not to mention it at all.

“Well, there are rather a lot of goods coming along,” Amrothos pointed out. “If they’re not busy telling tales of King Théoden, they might be figuring out where everything is going.”

“No, no, they’d’ve done so already,” Lothíriel said impatiently. Didn’t he ever pay attention? “Ada and King Elessar didn’t have so many meetings preparing for this journey for nothing.”

“Oh, right. They wouldn’t have even known how much to bring if they hadn’t gone over it already.” Amrothos scrunched up his face, thinking.

“You know, Amrothos, you really are quite smart when you bother to apply yourself,” Lothíriel told him, wishing for the thousandth time that making intelligent discussion with him wasn’t so much like dealing with a toddler. “I wish you’d do it more often.”

Amrothos scowled. “If I wanted to be lectured, I would have stayed in Minas Tirith with Elphir,” he said. “If you’re so curious, go bother them instead.” He wrapped his apple core in a handkerchief and stuffed it in his saddlebag without once looking at her, but Lothíriel didn’t leave. After a few minutes of riding in silence, he turned to her. “Well? Aren’t you going to join the intelligent discussion ahead?”

“No,” she said. “Not unless you’re coming with me.”

He grinned again. “Well, now that I won’t shame you by eating my delicious apple...”

Lothíriel clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle. Amrothos spurred his horse ahead, and she followed close behind. They ended up on either side of Faramir, who spotted them coming and made room. Imrahil, to Lothíriel’s left, gave his children a welcoming nod and turned back to his conversation in Westron with Legolas and Gimli, the elf and dwarf who had travelled with King Elessar since they’d left Imladris last autumn.

“Mae govannen, cuz,” Amrothos said.

“Good morning,” Faramir said. He smiled at them both. Her cousin seemed more at ease on the road than he had when Lothíriel had seen him in Minas Tirith. But then, he had been a ranger.

“How are you?” Lothíriel asked in Sindarin.

Faramir tensed a little and looked past her, and she followed his gaze to where Éomer rode with King Elessar. She turned back to her cousin in surprise.

Amrothos hummed in interest. “Éowyn, Lady of the Shield-arm, doesn’t frighten you, but her brother does?”

“I am not frightened,” Faramir said sternly. He glanced from Amrothos’s arched brow to Lothíriel’s wry smile and relented. “I have made my good first impression. Éomer has heard from what sources he could find—” he glanced at Lothíriel, who blushed— “and seems to think well of me. Éowyn loves me as I am, but I still feel I must meet her brother on his terms.”

“Rubbish,” Lothíriel blurted. “You are worthy of his esteem whatever terms you meet on. Besides, he is predisposed to like you. He wants his sister’s happiness, and since she has chosen you, he has no choice but to approve.”

Faramir smiled. “You think so?”

“I do,” she declared. “What good brother would deny his sister?”

“I deny you plenty,” Amrothos said.

“And who said you were a good brother?” Lothíriel teased.

Amrothos pouted at her and rode ahead.

Lothíriel turned back to Faramir. “Éomer will like you for his sister’s sake, but he will love you for your own.”

“I shall take you at your word. Éowyn hopes it will be so for both of us.”

“I’m sure it will,” Lothíriel said warmly. “You’re both good men.”

“Far be it for me to declare my own goodness,” Faramir said. “But yes, that is the impression I’ve gotten of him.” He glanced around, shifted his horse closer to hers, and lowered his voice. “Éomer told me that he asked your opinion of me. I thank you for it. He seemed to give it greater stock than your father’s words.”

She stared at Mithroch’s pale mane, cheeks burning, and a smile spread unbidden across her face. To think she had tormented herself for being a last resort! “I’m only glad to have helped,” she said.

“Is that so,” Faramir murmured, a strange note in the words. She looked at him suspiciously, but he swiftly changed the subject. “I hope that you shall love Éowyn. If her brother must love me for her sake, then you must do the same for mine.”

“I love her already,” she told him. “And not just for your sake. Do you think I forgot what she did for Gondor?” Faramir looked uneasy at that, so Lothíriel dropped it despite her confusion. “Your wish is my command, my lord,” she said with a grin.

Faramir smiled at her then, relief softening his face. Lothíriel felt a rush of affection for him.

“Sis, cuz,” Amrothos called in Westron. He was coming back to join them, but he wasn’t alone.

Éomer rode beside him, looking as splendid as he had on his ride up to the Citadel two days past. His leather armor gleamed and his golden circlet glinted against his yellow hair. His expression was solemn, but not stern.

“Hail Faramir,” Éomer said, rather formally. He seemed to relax a little when he turned to her. “Hail Princess Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel dipped her head in greeting, but bit her tongue rather than speak. A simple ‘hail King Éomer’ wasn’t really enough, not when they were in the funeral procession for his uncle. But she couldn’t think of the right words. Comfort seemed empty since she was not someone close to him, and anyway, Éomer hadn’t found her comforting words particularly helpful yesterday. Silence was cowardly, but she feared offending him with foolish words.

“Hail Éomer King,” Faramir said, bowing in his seat. He looked at Éomer with his keen gray eyes, but he said nothing more.

Lothíriel could sense her cousin’s caution, and in his uncertainty she found her courage. She cleared her throat. “My lord, how are you?” Éomer raised his eyebrows a little, perhaps in surprise at her audacity, and she quickly added, “You needn’t answer if you’d rather not.” She winced immediately. What a silly thing to say! He was a king; he didn’t need her to tell her what he could or couldn’t do.

“I am well, thank you,” Éomer said, the shadow of a smile flashing across his face. After a brief silence, he sighed and stroked his horse’s braided mane. His face was grim. “I feel the loss of my uncle all the more keenly today than I had since his death. I came to terms with my uncle’s passing over the months, but now the loss is fresh again.”

Amrothos nodded. “When Naneth— when our mother died, I was in Minas Tirith. When I heard, it was like I had died a little myself. But it was less painful with every day until I got home. Dol Amroth was empty without her, and it suddenly felt as though she had just died that day.”

Lothíriel stared at her brother with surprise. “You never told me that,” she said. “You seemed to have finished your mourning by the time you got home.”

Amrothos shrugged. “She was buried, and my grief was my own. It would have been thoughtless to come home in tears when you all had to suffer through her dying as well as her funeral. All of you had accepted it, or so it seemed to me.”

She bit her tongue. She’d acted resigned because he had seemed so; if only he’d said something to her! Perhaps she might have been open with him as she’d failed to be with anyone else after her mother’s death. But there was no point in talking about it now. Éomer was the one they were supposed to be comforting, not her. She looked imploringly at Faramir, hoping he would change the subject. He understood her as he always seemed to.

“I never met Théoden King,” Faramir said to Éomer. “And I know so little of him, aside from his bravery and skill.”

“He was a father to me,” Éomer said wistfully. He looked around and smiled suddenly. “Yes, I shall tell you about him. And by the end of it, you will love him as I do.”

\---

Éomer regaled them with stories of King Théoden until the sun was high overhead and the company broke up for luncheon.

Amrothos kept one eye on Éomer as he helped Lothíriel down from Mithroch. When she was back on solid ground, she followed his gaze. Éomer was making his way to the front of the procession.

“He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known,” Amrothos mused aloud, once Éomer was well out of earshot. “Although I’ve not the slightest wish to be him.”

“That seems like a contradiction,” Lothíriel said.

“No, for I don’t mind being second or third best.” Amrothos ran a hand through his short dark hair and smiled down at her as she brushed down her skirts. “I know you and I think differently about these things. You’d love it if you suddenly were Prince of Dol Amroth.”

“Not if it meant everyone ahead of me was dead,” she said, alarmed. How many people would have to die for that to happen? Four? No, not just her father and brothers, but Alphros too.

“Well, yes, there is that.” Amrothos had the decency to look chagrined, although his expression quickly grew thoughtful. “I don’t know really know how Éomer feels about suddenly being king. But he’s got a good heart, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Lothíriel followed her brother’s gaze. Éomer stood alone near his uncle’s bier, and he passed a hand over his face in what looked like the end of a prayer. Any decent person would be saddened by a kinsman’s passing; any decent person would afford them all honors.

She thought of her mother’s funeral and shuddered.

Éomer had a better heart than she.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer crossed his arms and rocked on his feet. “I only hope my sister doesn’t say such things to my friends behind my back.”
> 
> “I daresay Lady Éowyn is wiser than I am,” Lothíriel quipped. She raised her chin. “But I’d say the same thing about anyone. We all have flaws.”
> 
> “And what are yours?” He smiled, but there was a challenge in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my (very busy!!) beta reader brynnmclean (ilfirin_estel)! And thank you for reading— hope you enjoy :-)

Near evening on the first day of travel, the procession came upon the Grey Wood under Amon Dîn, and though no one could be seen in the forest, the sound of far-off drums beating in the hills brought a hush upon the company.

Lothíriel and Amrothos, riding alone together again, glanced at each other, shared curiosity reflected on their faces. Ahead, Elessar beckoned his heralds forward. The heralds blew trumpets, and one rode ahead towards the trees.

In a loud, deep voice, the man called out, “Behold, the King Elessar is come! The Forest of Drúadan he gives to Ghân-buri-ghân and to his folk, to be their own for ever, and hereafter let no man enter it without their leave!”

Then the drums rolled loudly, and were silent.

Lothíriel looked at her brother, mystified; he shifted his steed closer.

“The Rohirrim reached the Pelennor in time because of the Drúedain’s secret paths through here,” Amrothos told her. “Otherwise, they would have had to deal with an enemy host blocking the road. I think this was the bargain they struck, in exchange for their aid.”

“I see.” There was so much she didn’t know, Lothíriel realized. She had spent so much time reading about days gone by that she had missed a lot of things about the war that hadn’t affected her own home. She glanced at her brother. She was pleased to see that he wasn’t as disturbed by talking of the battle as he had been when he’d first come home. “Well,” she added finally, “if the Drúadain helped our war efforts, they deserve their own land.”

The procession continued on until near twilight, stopping at the base of Amon Dîn’s northern slope. The soldiers manning the beacon on the hilltop came down to pay their respects to their king. King Éomer ordered a group of his riders to scout the area as the rest set up camp. The Grey Company rejoined the procession from their ranging, bringing a slaughtered deer to supplement the evening meal for the more honored members of the procession.

King Elessar’s pavilion was even larger than her father’s and King Éomer’s. Her father was sharing with Faramir and Amrothos, Elessar of course had Queen Arwen, and Éomer was alone.

Lothíriel ducked into her own pavilion, which Maglon and another Swan Knight named Aglahad had erected next to her father’s. It was about eight feet round and fit her assembled bed and Nendis’s bedroll fairly comfortably, considering her tent was smaller than the rest. Nendis lit a lantern, which she hung from one of the tent’s beams. The lantern swayed a little, casting sliding shadows along the canvas walls.

Before they went to join the others, Lothíriel settled on the bed to let Nendis rearrange her hair. Hours of intermittent wind had left them both with flyaway hair, though Nendis just tucked any stray wisps of her own hair back into its simple bun before getting to work on Lothíriel’s more elaborate style. The task wouldn’t take long, and Lothíriel had no desire to seem unkempt, but she itched to join the retinue outside. She strained to hear some snippet of conversation from outside, but all the men’s voices were muffled from inside her tent.

She stretched her legs out and flexed her toes as she waited. She couldn’t feel it yet, but soreness was unavoidable after a day’s ride.

After a few minutes, Nendis finished with a satisfied humph. She grabbed a square blanket for the ground and followed Lothíriel outside, sticking close. In this part of the camp, the two of them were currently the only ladies; Queen Arwen was visiting still with her own people in an area set apart from the rest.

As Lothiriel and Nendis neared the bonfire between the two kings’ tents, Nendis suddenly checked her pace. Her eyes were wide in her round face as she stared about, clutching the blanket to her chest. Nendis had never been so close to so many important people, Lothíriel realized, for all that she lived under Prince Imrahil’s roof. Truth be told, before yesterday Lothíriel had never been around so many heroes either, but her background gave her protections and confidence that Nendis’s did not.

Nendis shouldn’t worry, Lothíriel decided, taking her companion by the elbow and leading her forward. “You’re my guest,” she said, quietly. “Let’s walk together.” Lothíriel was pleased to see Nendis smile, reassured and glowing and pretty.

Yes, that was much better.

Around the bonfire, a few logs and folding wooden chairs had been arranged for seating. Amrothos lifted his carved tusk stein in his sister’s direction in greeting before he returned to his talk with Faramir and their father. Over the fire, the deer was roasting, and some of the Riders made quick work distributing waybread and other food from the wagons to an organized queue of soldiers and riders. The two kings were there as well, greeting their men with warm smiles. Nendis sighed plaintively at the sight of them.

“They’re so handsome,” she murmured. “Don’t you think so, Princess?”

Lothíriel looked at Elessar and Éomer. They were as easy among the soldiers as they had seemed among their friends. Elessar was as noble as ever, giving each man the attention one might have expected to be reserved for men of her father’s station. He looked like a king out of legend, but Éomer… Éomer looked _real_. Perhaps it was his youth, or the ease of his motions as he talked. The light from the fire danced across his face, making him look stern one moment and boyish the next. Elessar stood straight and tall, but Éomer moved and shifted weight and clapped his riders on the shoulder. His teeth flashed and his clear bright eyes crinkled when he smiled. He’d never looked so like a soldier as he did now, chatting easily with his men despite the shadow of his uncle’s wain nearby. “I think I prefer the young one,” Lothiriel mused. “In looks, at least. He’s much more… alive. Less like a legend, I mean.”

Nendis looked at her, confused. “What do you mean? I think they’re all handsome.”

“Oh, you mean the _soldiers_. Yes, of course. They are.” Lothíriel felt like a dolt. Nendis was wild for soldiers. What did she care for kings? “Come, let’s go help serve them. It’s the least they deserve from us. We’d all probably be dead by now, if they hadn’t fought so well.” She led the way, bowing to her father as they passed. Nendis bowed much more deeply. Imrahil gave them an encouraging smile.

King Elessar stepped aside to greet Lothíriel; Nendis automatically fell behind and bowed. “Good evening, Princess,” Elessar said, and took Lothíriel’s hand in greeting. “You are most welcome to join us here.”

“Hail, Aragorn,” Lothíriel said. Using that name still felt so strange, but it was her king’s wish. She smiled at him. “Nendis and I wish to help. All men here are heroes, and we would be honored to serve them tonight.”

Elessar smiled and squeezed her hand. “Éomer,” he called, and Éomer clasped a rider’s forearm in farewell before coming over. “Our fair guests have come to help serve the men. I will leave it to you.” He bowed to Lothíriel and gripped Éomer’s shoulder before heading back to the queue of soldiers.

“Hail, King Éomer,” Lothíriel said, bowing her head. She wondered if he’d caught her studying him before. She didn’t think so. She hoped not, anyway.

Éomer clasped her hand and smiled. His hand was as warm as she remembered, and she smiled back up at him. Even if he had noticed her staring, he wasn’t offended.

“Hello, Princess,” he said. “Your offer will be a welcome one to my men who have spent too long among themselves.”

“Yes, come!” called one of the serving riders with a thick accent, laughing as he spoke. “Pretty faces are very welcome. Come help with me.”

Hands still clasped, Éomer and Lothíriel both turned to look at the youngest of the men distributing food, but he was smiling at Nendis, whose face was very pink indeed. Lothíriel hid a smile behind her free hand and glanced at Éomer, whose face crinkled with a grin when he caught her eye.

The bold young rider looked perhaps Amrothos’s age, and he had a short beard like Éomer’s (was that a new fashion in Rohan?) and thick blond braids. Not nearly as good-looking as his king, and certainly much shorter, but he had an easy smile and a truly adorable accent.

“Come, Eadric, make yourself useful,” Éomer said, still smiling. He led Lothíriel to him by the hand. Eadric came out to meet them with a bow. “This is Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.” He paused when he looked at Nendis, who had followed.

“And this is Nendis, my companion,” Lothíriel finished smoothly. Nendis glanced at her, grateful, then smiled at Eadric and followed him to his post. Lothíriel tried to drop Éomer’s hand to follow, but he tugged her aside. She looked at him, confused.

“I want to thank you,” he said, quietly.

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows and glanced down at their still-joined hands. Éomer let her go, and she twisted her hands together behind her back. “You already did,” she reminded him.

“And I wanted to say so again,” Éomer said. His gaze was earnest. She noticed with a little start that his blue eyes had gold flecks, like sparks. “Few people have the courage to ask a near stranger how he is at times such as these. And yesterday… your words were a comfort. All of them.”

“Anyone would have done the same.” She glanced aside and wove her fingers together. He had not seemed particularly comforted yesterday, that was for sure. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Don’t say least,” he told her. Lothíriel looked up at him, surprised. “They don’t call these dark times anymore, but there’s still plenty of darkness hanging over m— Middle-earth. Kindness is a gift, and it’s one you gave me. So again, I say thank you.”

Lothíriel bowed, more uncomfortable than she’d been in the lawns of the Houses of Healing. She didn’t want to be thanked for doing what any decent person would have done. She wanted… She wanted to be thanked for doing what only _she_ could have done. And saying kind words to a worried, grieving man was anyone’s duty. But she only said, “You’re welcome.”

Éomer nodded, satisfied at last. “How are you finding the journey so far? It’s different from what you’re used to, I imagine.”

What was _that_ supposed to mean? Did he think she wasn’t up to it? What made him think so? She couldn’t think of anything.

Her incredulity must have shown on her face, for Éomer hastily added, “From what Amrothos says of Dol Amroth’s famous ships, I guessed you travel by boat.”

“Ah! Yes, most of my long journeys have been on the swan-road— by sea,” she explained. “This is different, but not unpleasant. Amrothos stayed with me and kept me company this afternoon. He’s kind to me, whatever his other faults.” Éomer smirked; Lothíriel caught her breath at his expression. That smile was surely a better sight than a hundred soldiers, however rugged. She sent a silent apology to Nendis. It wasn’t a crime to have different tastes, was it?

He crossed his arms and rocked on his feet. “I only hope my sister doesn’t say such things to my friends behind my back.”

“I daresay Lady Éowyn is wiser than I am,” Lothíriel quipped. She raised her chin. “But I’d say the same thing about anyone. We all have flaws.”

“And what are yours?” He smiled, but there was a challenge in his face.

Lothíriel hesitated, taken aback. He surely knew Amrothos’s flaws; they’d ridden into battle together. But what right did he have to know hers? Yet however forward he was, she didn’t dare avoid the question. “I want more than I have,” she said, slowly. “And I don’t think of others as much as I should.”

“So, you’re ambitious and merely human.” His expression was gentler now. “That’s not so bad.”

She bit her lip and glanced to Théoden’s bier. Éomer followed her gaze and frowned. When he turned back to her, she drew back, ashamed.

Éomer had suffered great loss. His uncle dead, his cousin dead, his sister nearly slain… But he had avenged all of his fallen kin, and now he was honoring Théoden with company like no king of Rohan had ever seen.

And Lothíriel? She hadn’t even had the decency to go to her own mother’s funeral. She had only watched from a high window with dry eyes. She had never cried, not really. It was easy not to cry when people didn’t want you to. When her father and brothers had gone off to war and left her in charge of Dol Amroth, she opened endless missives that brought her sister-in-law to tears. Boromir, dead; her uncle, dead; Faramir, wounded and poisoned. Her brother Erchirion had been trapped in Pelargir while it was overrun with Corsairs, and weeks passed before they knew if he’d survived. Even Aunt Ivriniel, generally as strong as a fortified wall, had wept in private. But Lothíriel had only carried on as usual, untouched.

Lothíriel realized her hands had curled into fists, and she stiffly spread her fingers out and looked in surprise at her red, stinging palms. She glanced up to find Éomer watching her, whether with concern or pity she could not tell. She forced a smile in response to his searching look. “There are some things a lady is loathe to make known, lest word get out.”

His eyes widened with surprise and then his face darkened. His upper lip curled back; his shoulders stiffened. Any trace of pity or concern vanished, and Lothíriel stepped back instinctively when she noticed his hands had curled into fists. But she did not cower or look away. Her pride was as powerful as any man’s rage.

Éomer came back to himself. With great effort, he lowered his shoulders and straightened his hands. He was still red-faced, but Lothíriel sensed he had regained control.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Princess,” he said stiffly. “I would not insult you so. You should rejoin your friend.”

He bowed and left her.

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, a chill running through her. She hadn’t meant to anger him, nor imply anything about his character. Couldn’t he seen she was just trying to escape? Why did he insist on cornering her?

Well, whatever he’d been trying to do, he must have realized by now that there was no point in talking to her. Not when their last two conversations had ended so badly— and now she’d insulted his character with her ill-placed humor. Was she turning into Amrothos, lacking a sense of propriety? At least her brother felt grief, even if far too much. She seemed to feel nothing at all.

With a deep breath, she finally turned back. Éomer had gone to sit with her brother and father and Faramir, listening to them talking in low voices. His back was to her, his shoulders still stiff. Her father glanced over at her with a frown, and Lothíriel flinched and turned away. She hoped Éomer would keep her foolishness to himself. Despite his severe judgment, she had a sense that he was as good as his word. Whatever he thought of her, he wouldn’t tell her kin. That was a small comfort.

Lothíriel made her way back over to Nendis and Eadric. Eadric bowed and kept a respectful distance from her, but he did tend to touch Nendis’s shoulder or arm when he spoke to her. Despite her heightened color, Nendis spoke and did her work steadily. Their little flirtation was lifted straight from the chaste love poems Lothíriel had read as a girl. Lothíriel slowly relaxed to the soft sound of their voices.

As she served, the Rohirrim gave studiously polite thanks in accented Westron. Some seemed to hardly speak the language at all. When the line was gone, Lothíriel asked Eadric about it.

“Not everyone in the Mark can know Westron,” he said as he put together plates for the three of them. “I only know some, and I speak it bad, I know.”

“You speak Westron very well for someone who’s only been away from Rohan— what, twice? Two times?” Nendis asked; Eadric nodded. She readjusted the blanket over her arm. “I’m sure my Westron would be terrible if my mother hadn’t forced me to practice.”

“My mother and sister speak Westron less well than me,” Eadric said with a wry grin. “But they live all time in the hamlet. I ride to the south with Théoden King, and now Éomer King. I learn from my friends.”

Nendis took two plates from Eadric. With a hopeful look, she said, “If you like, I can teach you a little.”

He smiled at her so gently that Lothíriel felt like she was intruding.

“You are kind,” he said. “You are beautiful and you are kind.” He turned to Lothíriel, and she braced herself without knowing why. “Princess, are every lady from Gondor so good?”

She thought of her conversation with Éomer and her stomach fell. “I’m certainly not,” she answered. “But Nendis is the best companion I could wish for.”

Nendis blushed. Eadric was soon called away by another rider, but he looked back at them more than once as he went away. For the first time, Lothíriel noticed his limp. He must have been wounded. In which fight, she wondered?

Nendis turned to her with a dazzled smile. “Isn’t he marvellous?”

“He certainly is charming,” Lothíriel agreed. And he made better conversation than his king— or at least, he hadn’t asked so many prying questions. But maybe that was just their way. Men of Rohan were supposed to be forthright. She couldn’t imagine anyone from Gondor asking her about her faults during their third proper conversation. Not among her acquaintance, anyway. Maybe Maglon, but even he’d never dare ask her to expose herself as Éomer had. And she’d only managed to give offense in return.

Lothíriel rubbed her face, exhaustion settling in like a heavy blanket.

“Princess, are you well?” Nendis asked.

“I think I will turn in,” Lothíriel murmured. She shot one last look to the bonfire. Amrothos, Imrahil, Faramir, and Éomer were deep in talk; not even Faramir glanced her way. She sighed. She had been looking forward to talking with her cousin, but the thought of going near Éomer now made her shudder. She turned away from the fire and patted Nendis on the arm. “Go, teach Eadric some grammar. I can manage.”

Lothíriel left Nendis and went to her pavilion. She paused as she lifted the entry flap. If she looked back, would he be watching her?

No, she decided, dejected. If Éomer was watching her, it was only with contempt.

She slipped inside her tent.

The heavy summer air lulled her to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She looked at Éomer with sudden realization. “It’s like you said. Men treat women differently than they treat men.”
> 
> “It’s true,” Éomer said. “And my sister would agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to brynnmclean, my amazing beta reader who always knows exactly the right things to say to make these chapters better xoxo

_T.A. 3019  
_ _21 July_

Lothíriel woke up suddenly.

Had she dreamt? She didn’t remember. She had no idea how early it was, but a quick look over the side of her bed revealed that Nendis still slept. Very early, then. Well, Lothíriel was awake, and lying in bed made no sense. She shifted her legs to sit up, and then immediately curled instinctively into a ball at the searing pain.

She groaned.

Her stomach, legs, and everything in between felt like a giant bruise. And it had only been one day! She couldn’t imagine managing two more weeks of this.

Lothíriel lay curled up for a few minutes until her muscles relaxed. She laboriously sat up, pushed aside her blankets, and got to her feet. She held onto her pavilion’s center pole for balance. The grass tickled her bare feet, and she shifted weight, rubbing her foot against her leg. With a glance down at Nendis, she went to peek out the canvas door.

Much of the sky was still dark, but dawn was breaking in the east. The air outside was cool and damp. Muffled noises came from the nearby soldiers’ encampment to the east and scouts patrolled the perimeter. The only person awake in the area apart from the guards at the two kings’ tents was Amrothos, walking alone around Imrahil’s tent with a book. Once he noticed her, he grinned and shut his book. He gave her an expectant look. Lothíriel nodded and ducked back inside.

She sat back on her bed with a grimace to put on her garters, hose, and dyed leather shoes. She changed into a fresh linen shift and pulled on the clean gray riding dress Nendis had set aside for her last night. As she buttoned the long rows of buttons up her front and along the cuffs of her sleeves, she glanced once more at Nendis, who was still asleep. Was it worth it to wake Nendis to fix her hair? She didn’t mind Amrothos seeing her with her hair down, but there were all the soldiers… Nendis shifted in her sleep, a contented smile on her pretty round face. Lothíriel’s face softened. If Amrothos could get away with eating before noontime, she could certainly manage a simple hairstyle until breakfast. Nendis had earned her sleep.

Lothíriel braided her hair over her shoulder as she headed over to her brother. He looked tired, with dark circles around his gray eyes. She wondered how much sleep he’d managed in the night. Still, he smiled and tucked his book into his belt when he spotted her.

“Good morning,” he said. He kissed her cheek and tugged lightly on the end of her long braid. “How’d you sleep? This is rougher than you’re used to.”

Remembering how Éomer had insinuated she wasn’t fit for the road, Lothíriel frowned and pulled back, crossing her arms. “I slept just fine. Why shouldn’t I have? I don’t need a freshly filled mattress to sleep.”

Amrothos held his hands up in apology. “Calm down, Lothíriel, no one is saying you can’t handle it. I’m only asking.” He peered at her deepening scowl and cracked a grin. “You must be sore even if you slept well, though. If I am, you _must_ be.”

Her lips twitched. Infuriating as it was to be told to calm down, Amrothos had hit upon a sore spot—a _very_ sore spot. “I feel like my whole body might wither up,” she admitted. She took her brother’s offered arm and leaned against his shoulder as they made their way to the edge of the camp. Once they were out of earshot of King Elessar’s guards, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m cross and it’s not your fault.”

“Well, I suppose now I know how you feel,” Amrothos said. “I must have done the same to you constantly lately.” He rolled his ankles around one after the other to stretch his calves. “But I doubt that will change. It’s unlikely to, anyway. I’m not much of one for improving myself.”

Lothíriel chewed on her lip. “What, not even for me?”

Her brother shrugged, seeming quite unaffected, and continued stretching.

She copied some of her brother’s less strenuous stretches and wondered. Amrothos had never been one for self-improvement. Elphir’s complaints about Amrothos were often exaggerated, but the one rant where he compared Amrothos to a toddler… Well, some of it was unfair, but Amrothos could as selfish as Alphros even when he should have known better.

The worst thing was, Amrothos _did_ know better. He just didn’t seem to care. True, he was unselfish as often as not, but his generosity was as careless as his selfishness.

Lothíriel glanced at Amrothos, his arms raised to the sky and his face glowing in the early light. She winced and turned away from him. Who was she to judge? What had she ever done with the care she wished her brother had?

_Kindness is a gift, and it’s one you gave me._

Éomer’s words from last night popped into her mind, and Lothíriel instantly felt a thousand times worse. Oh, yes, she had been kind. She had been thoughtful, or at least she’d tried to be. And then she had insulted Éomer so profoundly that he’d given her no chance to apologize. He’d only stalked away, his every movement screaming that he hated her. Deep shame twisted knots in her stomach. She shuddered and hugged herself tightly, willing her mind to clear. The spiral of remorse would only get worse as time went on; all she wanted was to forget. Lothíriel closed her eyes and tried to picture something, anything other than Éomer’s cold scorn, but no matter what landscapes and faces she imagined, his face and clenched fists were always at the edge of her vision. Hopeless, that’s what she was.

“Sis?”

Amrothos’s voice cut through her failed reverie. Lothíriel took a steadying breath, schooled her features, and turned back to him. “I’m fine,” she said. He raised his eyebrows and pinched her arm, still wrapped protectively around herself. She jerked away out of his reach and swallowed down her guilty nausea. “I’m _fine_.”

Amrothos frowned. “I know you’re lying. You think I can’t tell how wretched you feel?” Lothíriel said nothing; he sighed. “If you’re going to be like that, I’m going to leave,” he said flatly.

Her brother’s hypocrisy never failed to aggravate her. How often had she put up with his impossible behavior? She would never have left him alone with this thoughts when he was like how she felt now. It would have been cruel.

But as much as Lothíriel wished that Amrothos practiced more self-reflection, the truth right now was that she wanted him to stay. She wanted the companionable press of his shoulder against hers and the true understanding that they shared, clumsy though she felt at times expressing herself. Being alone would be worse, and she certainly didn’t want to have to walk back through the encampment by herself. So she sighed and said, “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

Amrothos frown deepened. “Well, then tell me what’s wrong.”

She hesitated and glanced at Éomer’s tent, which was closeby and as silent as the rest. Amrothos followed her gaze and raised his eyebrows, surprised. He carefully linked his hands behind his back and tilted his head with perplexion as he turned back to her.

“Éomer? What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Lothíriel said quickly. She knew Amrothos’s temper. Cool, icy cool, until it suddenly boiled over and someone got hurt. And this was _not_ the time for brotherly overprotectiveness. Amrothos’s face darkened like thunder and he crossed his arms. She blurted, “He only… He wanted to know my faults.”

Amrothos blinked, taken aback. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” she swore. She blushed as Amrothos looked once more at Éomer’s tent, his gaze calculating rather than cold.

“Huh! What did you tell him?”

“Not everything.” She looked at the ground, miserable again. “But I think he must hate me now, after what I said to him. If only he’d left me alone!”

“Well, what did you say?” Amrothos’s voice was gentle but insistent.

“Just… that I want more than I have, and that I don’t think of other people enough.” She dug into the earth with her toes, eyes still downcast.

“Both entirely true,” Amrothos remarked. “And he got upset at _that_?”

“Ugh, no… He wouldn’t leave me alone, Amrothos!” Her voice took on a shrill quality; she took a deep breath to calm herself as best she could. “I told him that I didn’t want to say anything else, in case something got out, you know, a little sarcastic. Defensive. But he thought I was impugning his character or something, and now he hates me!”

Amrothos squeezed her arm; she looked back up at him.

“Lothíriel, you’re a Princess of Dol Amroth,” he said, as slowly as if he were speaking to their nephew. “Éomer is Gondor’s ally. He’s our father’s friend. He’s not _allowed_ to hate you.”

She snorted, but didn’t pull away. “He’s not obligated to like me just because of Ada. I don’t have to like all of your friends, do I? And he’s a king. Kings can do what they like.”

“No they can’t,” Amrothos countered. “Not without facing the consequences, anyway. King Eärnur rode to Minas Morgul and was never seen again.”

At that, Lothíriel rolled her eyes. “Well, Éomer cannot be slain by the Witch-king. The wraith’s been killed, by his own sister no less! And he hasn’t done anything wrong. He only asked me a question I should never have answered, and I insulted him when I tried to get out of it. I should have just walked away, or said something different, or—”

“If he’s made you unhappy, he’s done you wrong,” Amrothos said, cutting her off. “If he was insulted by something you said, it was his own fault for asking a question even _I’d_ balk at asking you. You care too much about Adar to have said anything wrong on purpose. Not to mention your own reputation,” he added unnecessarily. When she scowled, he pulled her under his arm in a crushing hug and laughed. “Come, stop worrying about it. If Éomer’s an ass to you, I’ll tell him off myself.”

“I thought you considered him among the best men you’ve known,” Lothíriel said, eyebrows raised.

“Only people obsessed with perfection think ‘best’ means ‘perfect,’” Amrothos said. He gave her an exaggerated, pointed look, and she finally smiled. “If you and Elphir understood the importance of messing up once in awhile, you’d be a lot happier.”

The weight of her brother’s arm was comforting, despite the tight squeeze. She angled them back towards their tents. Faramir was emerging from their father’s tent, and he smiled at them, bleary-eyed. Lothíriel looked up at her brother, her heart full.

“I’m happy now,” she said, and meant it.

 

* * *

 

The days of travel stretched into a week. The procession kept to the Great West Road, and the White Mountains rose high to the south. They were making good progress, Imrahil said, but to Lothíriel it seemed like every day was the same as before.

Everyone took breaks from riding, even the elves and Rohirrim. Lothíriel soon kept Rían’s pomander close at hand. She was relieved that no one seemed to notice how uncomfortable she was from the constant exercise and the smell. Or at least, the ones that did notice kept it to themselves.

Lothíriel spent most of her time chatting with Amrothos, walking with Nendis (and sometimes Eadric), or attending Queen Arwen. Arwen sent for her every few days to join the host of elves, though she tended to surround herself with her own family. Lothíriel was kept busy by Lady Galadriel’s attendants, who had been charmed by her brother Elphir at the feast in Minas Tirith, and Elladan, who often provided a strong arm for her to lean on.

Privately, Elladan also offered her a salve for her sore muscles. In ideal circumstances, Lothíriel would have been scandalized to receive such a thing from a man, but as it was, she only thanked him profusely. She was in too much pain to mind the impropriety.

Lothíriel and Nendis continued to serve the soldiers at supper. Every night, Éomer thanked them and shook her hand. He did not smile at her as he once had, and the way he spoke to her was nearly cold with formality. Lothíriel knew he hadn’t forgiven her, but there was no way she was going to apologize. Amrothos was right: she wouldn’t have insulted him if he hadn’t pushed her. Yet she couldn’t help but watch him when his face was turned, and hope that he might realize she regretted her mistake.

Even if it was his fault.

 

* * *

 

On the eighth day, heavy clouds threatened rain. Lothíriel slung her oiled cloak behind her saddle and spent the morning riding with the perián Pippin. She had been waiting to talk to him again—he’d promised to tell her more of his travels, and Lothíriel couldn’t imagine a better person to tell the tale. Even a bard would be hard-pressed to top Pippin’s light, melodic voice and his frank recounting.

As Pippin described his first meeting with her Uncle Denethor, Lothíriel glanced at Mithrandir from behind her lashes. The wizard rode with King Elessar. He looked less wise than her uncle, and Lothíriel could not understand Pippin’s description of the wizard as fierce. He seemed like an old man. But legends like his did not come from nowhere.

Mithrandir turned his eyes towards Lothíriel, his bushy eyebrows raised with faint amusement. Lothíriel flinched away from that bright blue gaze with an embarrassed flush. Could the wizard read her thoughts? Was he going to think she was foolish, too?

“And so I offered him my service, and he took it, though I wonder if he regretted it at the end.” Pippin trailed off, deep in thought. He had saved Faramir from a fiery death, and defied Denethor in doing so. But Lothíriel had found from her time leading in Dol Amroth that saving one person only made the loss of others hurt more. Did Pippin wonder if he might have saved Denethor, too?

“Pippin,” Lothíriel said, gently. He perked up once again and turned to her. “Tell me about your time with Boromir. Not—not how he died. I’ve heard that already. But tell me of how he was, what he said.”

“He was very brave,” Pippin said at once. “I remember he blew his horn before we left Rivendell. He said he wasn’t a spy, or a thief, even if he did have to sneak on the journey.”

“I remember,” Lothíriel murmured. “He always blew the Horn of Gondor as he left Minas Tirith.”

She wondered how the great horn had sounded in Rivendell. Queen Arwen’s tapestry had depicted Rivendell as in a valley. Did the horn ring more there? Did the trees in the vale eat up the sound, or did the high hills make it echo? When Boromir had gone out from Minas Tirith, his horn blew loud and clear across the wide plains, and the farmers would bang their tools or cheer to speed him off. But the Pelennor Fields were empty now, the land still scarred from the war.

“Did you see Boromir off on his way to Rivendell?” Pippin asked, interrupting her reverie.

“No. I haven’t seen him in four years. I…” Lothíriel trailed off, and Pippin waited quietly until she said, “Forgive me, go on.”

“Boromir kept an eye out for us hobbits,” Pippin said. “More than anyone else, really. He protected us from all sorts of things, from snowstorms to orcs. He was always cautious, though. He preferred safety.”

Lothíriel flinched. Pippin continued—she assumed he hadn’t noticed her discomfort—and as his picture of Boromir emerged, Lothíriel’s stomach sank. The Boromir she had known was so different from Pippin’s description. He’d always seemed so bold, so fearless. Caution had never been his way, not when he was with her. She had always thought of Boromir as nearly perfect. As a child, Lothíriel had dreamt of marrying him. Strong, fearless, dedicated, the highest position in the land… The perfect husband.

But how well had she really known him?

By the time the procession stopped for lunch, Lothíriel regretted asking Pippin of Boromir. She had managed to turn the conversation to the rest of his journey, but Boromir’s shadow hung over her as heavily as the gathering clouds.

Everyone was setting up for lunch, and Lothíriel took her leave of Pippin and dismounted. She left Mithroch with Maglon, taking only her oiled cloak. She had no appetite and even less desire for company. So she took a long, roundabout path to the back of the procession, where the carts and wagons bearing goods and supplies were stopped. The drivers freed their sturdy horses and sat clumped together, chatting as they ate dried meat and pickles.

Lothíriel skirted past them and made her way to the last wagon, where she spread her cloak on the ground by a back wheel. She sat down on the beaten dirt and leaned against the wagon wheel. All of the carts muffled the noise of the procession.

From her spot, Lothíriel could see Anorien stretching off into the east. Min-Rimmon, one of the beacon hills, was still visible under the darkening sky. Everything seemed green and fertile except for the wide, well-trampled road. Lothíriel wondered what the road had looked like when Boromir had taken it. Narrower, perhaps?

She sighed. What was she even doing back here? It wasn’t as though she was about to cry. Tears were beyond her, apart from her surprising lapse when Éomer had mentioned Boromir at the Houses of Healing.

Footsteps nearby disrupted her thoughts. Lothíriel leaned over to look under the wagon; someone in brown boots and bracers adorned with stylized horses was walking alone on the other side of her wagon. Oh no, was that Éomer? Lothíriel’s heart nearly stopped. She quickly sat up and put up a hand to check her hair. How did Éomer manage to get the better of her every time? He ought to take a lesson in civility from Elessar, she thought bitterly.

The man turned around the back corner of the wagon. It _was_ Éomer—and he almost tripped over her.

Lothíriel stared up at him as he regained his footing. Was she allowed to be amused by his near-fall? Probably not, but the sight of such a huge man losing his balance was entertaining whether or not she could laugh about it.

True to form, Éomer turned a sardonic eye down to her. “Well,” he said, and cracked a smile as though he could read her thoughts. “Good day, Princess.”

She dipped her chin and said nothing. A whole week had passed since he’d smiled at her or spoken to her like this. His tone was almost friendly; he seemed to be laughing at himself a little. But she wasn’t assuaged by his easy manner. Words weren’t safe, not when she knew just how easily he could misunderstand her.

Éomer glanced around, nodded at someone she couldn’t see, and sat next to her. Lothíriel tensed, but he only stretched out one leg and leaned against the wagon. His legs were so long that his feet were practically underneath the next cart over.

She drew her legs closer to herself and ran her hands across her skirt. She wasn’t sure what to do or say. Had Éomer come looking for her? If not, why was he staying? To apologize? She couldn’t tell. He wasn’t even wearing a cloak, despite the imminent rain. His golden hair, frizzy in the humidity, flowed freely across his broad shoulders.

“It will rain soon,” Lothíriel ventured. “Don’t you have a cloak? You’ll get soaked.”

“I don’t mind the rain,” Éomer said. “It’s refreshing in the summertime.” After a pause, he spoke again. “You probably noticed that I have a weak command of myself when I’ve been angered.” He clasped his hands around his drawn-up leg and looked up at the sky. “Théodred taught me to hold myself back, but I cannot hide my feelings as some can. And I am quick to judge.”

Lothíriel felt like a dullard for staring, but she was more confused than ever. She cleared her throat. “I, um, I’m sorry?”

“I never told you my faults,” Éomer said. “I asked for yours, but I never told you mine.”

“I didn’t ask,” Lothíriel pointed out.

“I didn’t give you a chance to.” He turned to face her. “I am sorry for wronging you,” he said seriously. “It was unjust. I beg your pardon.”

“Freely granted,” Lothíriel said at once. Relief washed over her, and with it a fresh burst of regret. “And although I was not in the wrong, I am sorry too.”

Éomer chuckled and leaned his head back, looking forward again. “Faramir said something like that,” he admitted. He lifted a hand absently to his forehead, where his circlet would be if he were wearing it. “He explained that you felt obligated to answer, and that you regretted it. I forget sometimes how my crown changes things for others, not just myself. I never intended to make you uncomfortable.”

Amrothos must have talked it over with Faramir. Amrothos to Faramir, Faramir to Éomer… The thread of the conversation made sense at last, though Lothíriel wasn’t sure how she felt about her brother and cousin talking about her behind her back.

“Faramir was right,” Lothíriel dared. She looked away. “I never meant to offend you—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly.

“—but you didn’t let me be,” she finished. She turned to look at him, face drawn. He wasn’t looking her way, and so she sat back against the wagon with a thump. “Don’t you know shame when you see it?”

Éomer sighed and scratched the back of his head. Such a boyish gesture would have been out of place on someone like Elphir or her father, but on Éomer, it seemed almost natural. “Oh, I do. I didn’t mean to back you into a corner. But you seem above the sorts of wrongs one generally thinks of. I suppose I wondered what someone like you would have to be ashamed of.”

“Someone like me?” Lothíriel quirked her brow. “Do you think only great heroes do enough to have regrets?”

“Not at all,” he said, smiling, “but a pretty princess is always faultless, you know.”

Lothíriel laughed, gratified by the compliment though it was clear he spoke in jest. She knew she was pretty, if not beautiful like Queen Arwen or the Lady Galadriel. But Éomer’s lighthearted praise struck her as honest as her brothers’. And he’d managed to avoid asking her any more prying questions. Perhaps he didn’t need lessons from Elessar after all.

“I am glad to be friends again,” Éomer said, smiling back at her. She nodded. “And now that we are, I will ask what brought you here.” Éomer gestured to the wagons around them. “But you are free to ignore my question. I can take a page from your book, you see,” he added.

Pleased by his newfound consideration, Lothíriel considered telling him the truth. There was no harm in it, she supposed. He thought of his dead kin, surely. But would he understand her discomfort? His losses had all been close ones.

“My own feet brought me here,” she said, buying time. She pressed her hands against her thighs and peeked at Éomer through her eyelashes. He was frowning a little, though he tried to conceal it. This wouldn’t do. She couldn’t leave it there, she decided, not after evasion had gone so poorly the last time they’d truly spoke. “I spent the morning with the perian Pip—oh, um, the, oh, what’s the word.”

“Halfling?”

Lothíriel shot Éomer a grateful look. “The halfling Pippin. He told me of his time with my cousin. With Boromir,” she clarified.

“And you miss your kinsman.”

“I do,” she said, “but I was more troubled by how different he sounded from what I remember.” She looked at Éomer with sudden realization. “It’s like you said. Men treat women differently than they treat men.”

“It’s true,” Éomer said. “And my sister would agree.”

Lothíriel nodded. From all she’d heard of Lady Éowyn, that sounded about right. “I believe it.” Lothíriel glanced sideways at Éomer. He was watching her with a careful interest that made her brave. She turned to face him fully. “Your sister knows you well, yes? She understands you?”

“Of course,” he said, surprised.

“Could you treat me as you treat her?” Lothíriel asked. “I mean—not exactly, I know I’m not your sister. I just would rather know you as you are, not some watered-down version.”

His gaze intensified as though he were studying her. After a moment, he smiled slowly. “You would? That is good.”

Lothíriel’s cheeks grew warm. She looked at her skirt and toyed with the hem. “Amrothos says you are among the best men he knows. Someone who earns such high praise from my stingy brother deserves knowing, no?”

Éomer laughed aloud, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “I should say so!”

“Anyway, I know I’m no soldier, and I’m certainly no king, but I don’t want to hear one day that I didn’t know you at all. Even if we sometimes misunderstand each other.”

“Or offend each other?” he challenged, eyebrows raised.

“I would rather be offended by my friends than lied to,” she said promptly. “Especially when the offending party knows how to apologize.” Éomer grinned and bowed his head in thanks. Lothíriel tilted her head to the side, considering. “I suppose if I didn’t care for someone, I’d rather they feign politeness as I’d have to, but… Friends can afford a few misunderstandings, can’t they?” She looked imploringly at Éomer.

He smiled at her, eyes crinkling. “Of course they can.” His voice was low and warm, and Lothíriel swallowed as she looked at him. She held his gaze until her face grew hot. Glancing down at his hands, she recalled how warm they were. Were they as warm as her face was now?

The first drop of rain hit her forehead and ran down the edge of her face. Lothíriel quickly wiped it away and looked up, grateful for the distraction. Next to her, Éomer tilted his face back and smiled, eyes closed. She squinted and moved into a crouch so she could pull her cloak on. The stiff, broad hood kept the rain from her eyes as the rain began in earnest, and she stared at Éomer as she stood. He was as strange as Erchirion! How could anyone enjoy being rained on that much? Did he like riding in wet clothes?

Apparently, for he stayed as he was for what seemed like ages. Lothíriel glanced around in hope of cover, torn between her dislike of the rain and a fear of offending Éomer by suddenly running away. But there was nowhere dry for her to go; the best thing to do was wait while safely wrapped in her cloak.

After a long minute, Éomer wiped his face clear. His hair and beard were already turning dark and slick from the water. Once he noticed she was standing, he jumped up as well.

Lothíriel turned towards the procession. Everyone was bustling to finish their lunches and pull on their cloaks. None of the nearby drivers or soldiers seemed to notice them, so Lothíriel looked back at Éomer. He smiled down at her fondly, and reached out to adjust her hood. She stood quite stiff until he pulled his hands back.

“There,” he said. “You are safe from the rain.”

“I was just fine before,” she pointed out. She reached under her hood to fix her hair, which had been disrupted by his adjustments, and quickly wiped her hands on her skirt. There was no call for his assistance, but it was a nice gesture. “But thank you.”

Someone behind them cleared their throat, and Lothíriel quickly turned around. It was Nendis, holding a cloak over her head and looking sheepish for interrupting.

“Prince Amrothos was wondering where you were, Princess,” Nendis said, keeping her eyes on Lothíriel.

“So he sent you to fetch me home,” Lothíriel said with a smile. She turned back to Éomer and bowed. “Excuse me.”

“Of course,” Éomer said. He held out a hand to her, and Lothíriel clasped it. He tugged her a few steps closer to him, until she had to tilt her head to see his face. Rain beat against her lips and chin. Bending his head towards hers, Éomer said conspiratorially, “We are friends now. And friends talk often.”

“Do they?” Lothíriel said. Surprised as she was by his sudden closeness, she couldn’t decide on amusement or defiance in response to his assertion, so she simply tilted her head to the side. “Here I was thinking that friends only spoke once every ten days.”

Éomer laughed and squeezed her hand. “Well said! I am rightly shamed. But we will talk soon.”

“If you wish it, my lord,” Lothíriel said, smiling. She pulled her hand back under her cloak. Éomer’s attention left her flustered, but she was relieved enough to be on good terms again that she ignored it.

“Oh, I do.” Éomer smiled back and brushed rain from his eyes. “I do.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Lothíriel gets her first glimpse of Rohan. But not everyone is as anxious for the journey to end as they appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the final chapter of this part of Lothíriel's story! Part 2 will pick up at Théoden's funeral and beyond—keep an eye out for it!
> 
> A huge thank you to the dedicated and brilliant @brynnmclean. A better beta reader could never be found <3

_T.A. 3019  
_ _29 July_

The Firien Wood was shady and cool after long days in the rolling plains of Anórien. Small gray critters with bushy tails climbed and jumped among the broad boughs over the road into the forest and raced each other up and around trees. The ground was covered with a blanket of old leaves. Young shoots encroached on the edge of the road.

“Someone will need take these young oaks away,” Eadric said, shaking his head. “Otherwise the road will be thinned.”

He had joined Lothíriel and Nendis at lunch and was telling them about Rohan’s flora as they rode through the wood. Lothíriel had little interest in plants, but though she was hardly paying attention, she could tell that Eadric’s Westron had much improved.

“Do oaks grow all over Rohan?” Nendis asked. “They’re common in Gondor.” They were still in Gondor, in fact—Rohan’s border was still some miles away.

“Where there is wood, yes.” Eadric stood in his saddle as he rode under a low-hanging branch to pluck free a few leaves. “Also we have these. We call it bece.” He passed the leaves to Nendis, who inspected their spiked oval edges.

“I don’t know if I’ve seen these before. Although there aren’t many trees in the cities, so who knows! They might be all over Gondor, and I’ve just never seen them.”

“You live in cities all the time?” Eadric asked.

“Yes,” Nendis said. She sighed and absently played with the loose hair around her face. She’d grown comfortable enough on horseback to ride with one hand off the reins. Occasionally, anyway. “Apart from this trip, I’ve spent more time at sea than I have outside of cities.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “I never thought of that,” she said. Nendis and Eadric turned to look at her at the same time, their bemused expressions identical. Lothíriel swallowed a grin. “That might be true of me as well.”

Nendis raised her eyebrows and shifted in her saddle. “Princess, what of your tours of Belfalas with my lord the prince?”

“Oh, of course.” Lothíriel blushed. She had completely forgotten the semi-regular tours of the province her family had taken in her early youth. Three or four weeks in the summer had always been set aside to ride to the provincial estates of her father’s most prominent subjects, until the threat grew in the east and her father was needed elsewhere. Lothíriel had not ridden through Belfalas in almost three years. Perhaps now that the war was over…

She turned back to Nendis, smiling. “Maybe next summer we will all go again, and you can come with us.”

Eadric frowned and scratched his bearded chin. “You will be in Belfalas next summer, Princess? In Gondor?”

“Where else would I be?” Lothíel said. Before Eadric could answer, she remembered her new post. “Oh, well, perhaps I will still be with Queen Arwen. And there is Faramir’s wedding. But I should be able to get home for at least a few weeks. I’d rather be by the sea than in stuffy Minas Tirith in summer anyway.”

“I… see.” Eadric exchanged a look with Nendis. He did not look particularly convinced.

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. Eadric clearly had other ideas about where she might be next summer, but she had little interest in the unspoken speculations of a young foreign rider. She bade both him and Nendis a nice afternoon and spurred her horse forward to join Amrothos.

At least her brother speculated out loud.

* * *

That evening, the company made camp among the trees on either side of the road only a half-mile from Rohan’s border. Lothíriel had spent the late afternoon with Queen Arwen’s folk, and so when she dismounted with Elladan’s assistance, she was close enough to the two kings to hear them talking. She ran her hand slowly down Mithroch’s mane as she listened.

“It seems foolish to stop here when the Mark is so close,” Éomer complained. “Ten minutes more and we would be at the Merling Stream.”

“And then we would need to ride on another twenty minutes to fully clear the bridge,” Elessar said. “I do not mind lingering in my own country. I well understand your anticipation.”

“Ah yes, all your decades of careful waiting!” Éomer’s smile was clear in his voice. The camaraderie between the two men had seemed odd at first to Lothíriel, considering the sixty year age gap. But they were both good men, and kings. And they had fought and planned together before either was crowned. Stranger things had happened.

More seriously, Éomer said, “My uncle would have liked to return to Rohan as soon as he could.”

“Tomorrow is not long away,” Elessar said. His voice faded as he led Éomer away. “Théoden King would have understood.”

“Princess Lothíriel?”

Elladan’s voice made Lothíriel jump. She’d been so busy listening to the two kings that she’d forgotten Elladan was even there. But his smile showed he had taken no offense at her inattention.

“Pardon me,” she said. She took his offered arm and walked with him to the wide area about thirty feet from the road where Maglon, Aglahad, and the rest of her father’s knights were assembling her family’s pavilions under the trees.

“You must be excited,” Elladan murmured.

“Oh?” Lothíriel quirked her brow at him. “How so?”

“Tomorrow we cross the Merling Stream,” he said. “You asked me about Rohan weeks ago, and you shall soon see it for yourself.”

“Yes,” she said. “But woods like these I can see at home. I am waiting to see what the great plains are like.”

“I shall tell you,” Elladan said. He leaned in as if to tell a secret, and Lothíriel bent her head forward to hear. He cupped a hand around her ear and whispered, “Very grassy.”

Lothíriel burst out with a laugh, but contained herself quickly. She schooled her features and turned back to Elladan with serious interest. “You don’t say!”

“Indeed I do.” His face lost its teasing quality. “You are staying on with my sister, are you not? After my kin and I leave Edoras with Aragorn?”

“Yes,” Lothíriel said, surprised. Had he forgotten that she’d only been invited for Queen Arwen’s sake? Lothíriel wasn’t going to desert her queen at her hour of need. Everyone she loved would be gone; Lothíriel would be her only source of familiar comfort. Her father and brother were set to return to Minas Tirith the same day the rest of the company set off to the west. Of the principal Gondorians, only Lothíriel and Arwen would remain in Edoras until King Elessar’s return.

“That is good. I’m glad she thought of it. I’ll try and remind her not to shut herself away for too long. A few days is alright, but not much more. Isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so,” Lothíriel answered. “I don’t think the schedule is fixed. I would not dare disturb her without permission, though.”

“No, no, of course not,” Elladan said. He patted her hand tucked in his elbow; the gesture made him seem old and absent-minded. “Ah, here comes your father.” He quickly lead her forward to meet Imrahil as the prince approached.

“Mae govannen, Prince Imrahil,” Elladan said. He pressed his free hand to his heart in greeting.

“Mae govannen, Lord Elladan.” Imrahil bowed his head and extended his arm to Lothíriel. “Daughter, come. I wish to speak with you.”

Lothíriel nodded. She smiled up at Elladan. “Thank you for the escort, my lord,” she said. He gave her a shadow of a wink and nudged her towards her father before bowing and turning back towards his own people. Lothíriel linked arms with her father and peered up at him, curious. But Imrahil was watching Elladan’s retreat with a slight frown.

“How are you, Adar?” Lothíriel asked.

“Hmm?” Imrahil glanced down at her. He smiled absently. “Very well, very well.”

The Swan Knights had finished erecting the prince’s pavilion, and Imrahil brought her inside once the men had brought her father’s chests. Maglon was setting up a few chairs around a spindly table, and he bowed when they entered.

“Good evening, prince, princess,” he said. He smoothed a woven cloth over the table.

Once Maglon had begun to set up the bed, Imrahil sat down at the table and gestured for Lothíriel to do the same. She glanced at Maglon, curious what her father had to say. He had not wanted to talk to her alone since that evening in Minas Tirith.

But Imrahil did not address her at all. Instead, he turned to Maglon. “Fetch the map of Rohan for me.” Maglon paused in his work on the bed. He pulled a scroll case from one the trunks around the perimeter of the tent and handed it to Imrahil. “Thank you.” Imrahil opened the case and spread a parchment map of Rohan across the table facing Lothíriel. “Come and look, Lothíriel.”

As Maglon returned to his work, Lothíriel scooted closer to the table and looked at the map. Yes, that was Rohan alright. And on the right edge of the map, part of Anórien as well. She peeked at Imrahil through her eyelashes. Was there a point to this?

“We are here,” Imrahil said. His finger hovered over a wooded area along the north side of the White Mountains.

“I know,” Lothíriel said, stung. She wasn’t the best at geography, but she wasn’t a total idiot. She could easily read where it said _Firien Wood._ “We are near the Merling Stream.” She nodded towards the spot her father had indicated, still baffled. What was her father getting at? Should she be concerned?

“Just so.” Imrahil sat back and ran a finger along his lips. “I am sorry I did not have time to go over this with you before we left. Particularly as you will be returning so much later than the rest of us.”

“Don’t be, Ada! You were so busy.” She smiled at her father, relaxed at last. If all he wanted was to be sure she knew their route, there was nothing to worry about. “I hardly would have had the time myself. Besides, I much prefer being in places to looking at them on maps.”

“Indeed?” Imrahil said thoughtfully. Maglon, finished with his work, took leave of them; Imrahil nodded at him as he left. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of travel.”

“I’m not,” Lothíriel said quickly. She didn’t want her father’s thoughtful look transforming into an actual idea—she was perfectly happy to stay at home, thank you very much. “I, well, I prefer it to looking at maps.” She blushed. “They’re useful tools, but they don’t give you much sense of a place. All parchment looks the same, no matter what you draw on it.”

Imrahil smiled wistfully. “You are right. I have studied this map and ones like it for hours, hoping to make sense of what I hear of Rohan’s affairs. They’re in poor shape, Lothíriel. I worry for them.”

Lothíriel stared at her father, not sure what to say. She was even less sure of why her father was telling her any of this. Though she knew how many of the carts in Théoden’s funeral procession were full of supplies and grain for the Rohirrim, she’d never been privy to any real discussions about the country’s troubles. All of her understanding of the matter came secondhand.

She pursed her lips. Apart from the few months her father and brothers were at war and she was alone with her aunt Ivriniel in Dol Amroth, secondhand was the best she’d ever gotten. But now wasn’t the time to let her bitterness take hold. If her father was bothering to speak to her of Rohan’s troubles, there must be a point. She took a breath and brought herself back to the present.

“At least they have us,” she ventured.

“Well, yes,” Imrahil said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “But they should not have to rely on us.”

“Well, we can hardly do anything about that now,” Lothíriel said. “King Elessar renewed the Oath of Cirion. When they need aid, we’re sworn to give it.” She traced a pattern on her skirt. There didn’t seem to be much of a point in mentioning that Rohan was sworn to help Gondor, too. “They shouldn’t need our help for too long, should they?”

Imrahil blew a slow breath out between his teeth. “Valar willing. Éomer has much work ahead of him. I don’t know how he will manage it.”

“What?” Lothíriel’s eyebrows flew up. “But you’re so fond of him. Don’t you trust him?”

“I would trust him with all I hold dear.” Imrahil reached across the table and patted Lothíriel’s cheek tenderly. “I am leaving you in his care, am I not?” She smiled briefly, but her father did not smile back. “I trust him to keep you safe while you await, and I trust him to lead his men into battle. But his duty now will be to his whole country, not a select few. It is something else entirely.”

From the crease in her father’s brow, Lothíriel guessed he was thinking of the brief time he had been in charge of Gondor while Faramir was senseless and the king not yet the king. She twisted her hands together in her lap. “He has the love of his people, at least.”

Imrahil narrowed his eyes at her, and she blinked in surprise and stilled her hands. But whatever had made him suspicious, it passed quickly. He smiled at last. “Yes, there is that. And it’s not nothing. They will follow him wherever he leads. I just worry that he may lead them astray.”

Astray how? Lothíriel ran her tongue against her teeth, wondering what her father meant but afraid to ask for clarification.

“He seems… aware of his failings,” she hazarded. She thought of her own failings—selfishness, pride, ambition, constant misunderstandings—and winced. “Although knowing our faults doesn’t necessarily mean we know how to work around them.”

“It is his youth and inexperience I am more concerned about,” Imrahil said. “However much he was raised by King Théoden, he was not brought up with kingly expectations. He has the lordship of Rohan’s first capital, but managing a town is much more easily done than ruling an entire country.” He sighed and crossed his arms. “I fear the betrayal of his uncle’s advisor will lend him to taking on too much himself. How can he delegate if he thinks his people will be suspicious of his ministers? How can he learn if he does not trust his advisors?”

Lothíriel couldn’t speak to the differences between ruling a town as opposed to a country, but she did understand the importance of delegation. Sharing the load was not just good administrative practice, it also kept more of your subjects happy, if done with consideration. How often had her father appointed a disgruntled nobleman’s more talented son or brother to a revered post in his government or army? Often enough that Lothíriel knew exactly how quickly the grumbling stopped.

“I’m sure he’d be glad for your advice,” she said.

“Oh, he’s had quite a bit of it. From myself, and Aragorn as well. But neither of us can be there to check his work.” Imrahil’s look turned nostalgic. “Erchirion and Éomer are nearly the same age, you know. But Erchirion learned at my knee. It’s easier to teach a child than a proud, full-grown man.”

Lothíriel thought of Éomer’s height, breadth of shoulder, and good looks. She bit her lip. Full-grown indeed.

“A child seeks praise; proud men seek glory,” Imrahil continued.

“I’m proud, and I like praise,” she blurted. Her father chuckled, and Lothíriel flushed with pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made him laugh.

“Well, perhaps you would like the opportunity for more.” Imrahil gave her a considering look. He steepled his hands and leaned his elbows against the table. “You would not balk at the chance to help me, I think.”

Lothíriel sat up straight at once. Her pulse beat fast. Finally, the heart of the matter! “Of course not, Adar. You know I always try to do whatever you ask. What is your wish?”

Imrahil glanced at the pavilion’s door before answering more quietly than before. “Aragorn has yet to appoint anyone from Gondor to serve as an ambassador to Rohan. He has asked that I advise him on whom to install in Edoras, but I will not have enough time to fully assess who will do well there.” He pursed his lips. “If Elphir was not so settled, I would send him without hesitation. But he would want to bring his wife and Alphros, and I will not send my grandson to a struggling country.”

“I would have thought…” Lothíriel trailed off, suddenly shy. Was her opinion worth airing? But her father gestured for her to continue, so she said, “I would have thought that King Elessar would want to send someone from closer to Rohan. From Anórien, or Lebennin.”

“That is my thought as well,” Imrahil said, nodding approvingly. “Aragorn’s close friendship with Éomer has lessened the urgency of the appointment, but I do not have the time to linger in Rohan. You, on the other hand, will be there for weeks longer.”

“Adar, I will do everything I can to learn what will work best,” Lothíriel promised. “Whenever Queen Arwen does not want me—”

Imrahil waved this away, though he smiled at her resolution. “I expect that your position will afford you the opportunities you seek without much effort on your part. Éomer has mentioned that the families of his chiefs have assembled at Edoras for King Théoden’s funeral, and many will stay to welcome their new king and await his orders. Be courteous as I know you to be, and the understanding we seek will be yours.”

Lothíriel leaned forward and squeezed her father’s hands. “You can rely on me.”

He smiled. Lothíriel sat back, barely containing her grin. As honored as she was to have been asked to accompany Queen Arwen, her father’s confidence meant a million times more.

“I should mention,” Imrahil added, “Faramir will be staying on with you as well.”

“What?!” Lothíriel’s mouth dropped open. “He’s the Steward of Gondor! How can he _and_ King Elessar be gone from Gondor for months?”

He shrugged, but Lothíriel could tell his nonchalance was feigned. “It has been discussed and decided.”

“By whom?” Lothíriel was flabbergasted. Surely however besotted he was, Faramir would not wish to leave Gondor for so long. He had his duties as Steward, but he had also been granted the princedom of Ithilien, which would need a thorough campaign to clear out the enemy’s lingering servants. If he wanted to welcome his fair bride in his own home next year, he would need as much time as he could get ensuring the place would be safe.

“Aragorn and Faramir settled it between them.” Imrahil shifted in his seat and sat up straight.

“But that makes no sense!” she blurted. “Surely—”

“Lothíriel.”

His sudden sharp tone cut her short. She stopped.

Imrahil pierced Lothíriel with his most princely gaze. “You should not argue,” he told her. “You have my trust for the tasks I have given you, but the choices that our king and steward make are not for you to question.”

Lothíriel shrank under his stern stare. “Yes, Adar.” She looked down at her lap and bit her lip. She could tell her father was unhappy with the change of plans, so why did he silence her concerns? They were in private.

If she left now, would her father think her cowardly, or disobedient?

But her father only rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I do not like to scold you, daughter, but you are young and unstudied in these matters. I would be remiss if I encouraged your contention.”

“Yes, Adar.” She kept her eyes down, a frown tugging at her lips. She wasn’t being contentious; she was just trying to understand something that made no sense. So what if she was still young? Her brain was as capable of coherency as any elder’s. But there was no arguing with her father. She could only wait him out.

Soon enough, Imrahil cleared his throat and spoke again, still somewhat stiffly. “So. Faramir will be with you and Queen Arwen in Edoras. I have asked him to remain cognizant of Aragorn’s request as well. But I would not mind a second opinion. Particularly as Faramir is likely to take advantage of the opportunity to visit with Lady Éowyn as much as possible. You will only have your duty to Queen Arwen to attend to.”

With effort, Lothíriel brought herself back from her brooding. “I will have to spend time with Lady Éowyn, too. Faramir wants me to befriend her. But I will see if I can learn from her what kind of man will do Gondor the most credit.”

“I am sure she will learn from you as well,” Imrahil said.

Lothíriel could tell her father was trying to soften his tone. She forced a smile. Surely now she could escape… “I hope so.” She glanced at the entrance and made a show of checking her hair. “Do you mind if I prepare for dinner?”

“No, no… Off you go, daughter.” Imrahil rolled up the map. Lothíriel gave him a dutiful kiss on the cheek and darted out.

Her small round pavilion was fully set up, and Nendis was inside setting out a fresh gown and shift for tomorrow.

“Oh, Nendis,” Lothíriel said, flopping back onto her bed. “Tell me nice things.”

Nendis paused, taken aback at this surprising request, but she recovered quickly. “Queen Arwen asked me how I was this morning, and she told me I looked pretty. Maglon says I am doing very well learning to ride, and I managed to eat an apple while riding this morning without feeling at all anxious about not using the reins.” She tilted her head in thought as she smoothed out the gown. “We are only a mile from the Merling Stream, and Eadric said he would take us there if we wanted to see it this evening.”

“A stream? How exciting.”

Nendis froze at Lothíriel’s bitter tone. She finished laying out the gown without replying.

Lothíriel squeezed shut her eyes. Why was she always cross to this poor girl? Nendis did not deserve her ire. She did everything right and well, and she was kind and gentle to boot. No, it was other people who made Lothíriel cross. But she was never free to express it to their faces. It wasn’t fair to take her frustrations out on Nendis.

She reached out a hand to her companion, who obediently came over and took it. “I’m sorry. I’m cross, but it’s not your fault. It never is.”

“You’re just fine, Princess,” Nendis assured her with a slight smile. “If I may, I think a walk away from everyone else will do you good. Eadric doesn’t need to walk with us, if you wish. Or I could walk with him, and you can have some time alone. It’s hard to be on good behavior _all_ the time, and there’s been no privacy here. There’s always someone around.”

Lothíriel sat up, still holding Nendis’s hand. “You say that as though you have trouble behaving, but you are always good.”

“Well,” Nendis said, mouth twisting, “I can’t be otherwise. It wouldn’t be right.”

A strained silence fell. Lothíriel’s face burned; of course it was different for Nendis. However much Lothíriel liked to think of Nendis as a companion, the truth was that there was a gulf between them. Nendis was a maid; she had no nobility in her blood. This was not the same as with Rían, who had always been a lady in her own right. Nendis would never marry someone of Lothíriel’s class, and she would never be free to be as sour and peevish to Lothíriel as Lothíriel was to her.

“I’m sorry,” Lothíriel said again, eyes downcast. “You have the patience of a saint, and I’m as stupid as a chicken.”

“I find chickens quite intelligent,” Nendis said innocently. “Perhaps they are a bit too chatty, but…”

Lothíriel burst into giggles. “Oh, you are adorable.” She kissed Nendis’s fingers and squeezed her hand. “You may tell Eadric I would be very honored to join you both, and I will even try to be on my best behavior.”

* * *

The sun had almost set by the time Lothíriel set out to the Merling Stream. She walked a few paces behind Nendis and Eadric, who were talking about plants again. Lothíriel tuned them out and mimed playing her harp to practice, keeping her eyes on the ground. She hummed somewhat tunelessly as she plucked silent chords out of the air.

Partway to their destination, they came across a clump of pink and purple wildflowers. Nendis plucked a bouquet, and over the last ten minutes of their ambling walk, she wove a crown of flowers. Though she offered it to Lothíriel, in the end it was Nendis herself who wore the wreath.

Lothíriel was still practicing her fingerings and had her eyes on the ground. She didn’t realize they had arrived and Nendis and Eadric had stopped until she bumped into Eadric.

“Pardon me,” she said, and looked up.

“Here we are,” Eadric said, gesturing on ahead.

The Merling Stream flowed out of the White Mountains, which loomed to the south behind the trees. The stream had worn the earth away into a rocky gully; the road continued straight across the stream by way of a stone bridge. Lothíriel smiled at the clear sound of water bubbling over rocks.

Nendis left the road at once to climb down the gentle slope to the water; Eadric and Lothíriel followed. Eadric soon caught up with Nendis, who had spotted a cluster of swan mussels. Lothíriel wandered just far enough to inspect the bridge over the stream. It had a central supporting pillar between two high arches four or five feet high. Some of the stones looked new; the bridge must have been damaged during the war.

She walked along the water’s edge back to the bridge and ran a hand along the smooth stones. How old was this bridge? Some of the work was clearly recent, but Lothíriel wondered. Had Gondorians built it, back when Rohan was part of Gondor? The bridge looked quite rustic to be of the Gondorian design she was most familiar with—there was no marble in sight!—but then again, not every location deserved the same consideration as Gondor’s great cities. Plenty of bridges in rural Belfalas were like this one.

Lothíriel looked over at Nendis and Eadric and grinned. Nendis half looked as though the only reason she wasn’t going after those mussels was Eadric’s arm wound through hers, preventing her from wading into the water. She strained against his arm, but it was clear she wasn’t about to jump in the river. They were both smiling.

By the Valar, those two were adorable. Lothíriel couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so charmed by a couple. Perhaps it was the freedom of the open road. Neither of them had much to do; Lothíriel was fairly self-sufficient during the day, and Eadric’s tasks rotated along with dozens of others. This wasn’t like what happened with Elphir and Rían, with the careful dance of proper courtship and dealing with protective parents. And for once, Lothíriel had few duties to keep her occupied. Here, unlike at home, she could pay attention to her maid’s sweet little romance.

It was too bad that such sweetness couldn’t last. Lothíriel didn’t know how long she and Nendis would be in Rohan, but it wasn’t going to be forever.

Lothíriel climbed up the riverbank, using the bridge for purchase, but she paused halfway up. More people were coming.

“Nendis, Eadric,” she called. “Others are coming.” They scrambled across the rocky shore to rejoin her. Eadric helped Lothíriel and then Nendis climb the rest of the way up the bank as the approaching party came into view.

Éomer was talking in careful, low tones to one of his lieutenants, a man Lothíriel had seen often but had never met, as they walked down the road. Two of Éomer’s riders followed at a distance. Eadric bowed to his liege as soon as Éomer noticed them. Lothíriel dipped her chin; Nendis hovered behind her with eyes lowered; an anxious hand fluttered up to her flowery crown.

“Ðu begíemest twā hlæfdigan þes æfen, Eadric,” Éomer said as he approached them. He smiled at Nendis. She glanced up, met his pleased gaze, and looked back down with a happy blush.

Lothíriel blinked, wondering what Éomer had just said. Was it really necessary to speak Rohirric when there were Gondorians present? Particularly since he seemed to be talking about Nendis. And yet Nendis did not seem perturbed. Had her lessons on language with Eadric gone both ways?

But no translation was forthcoming. Éomer clapped Eadric on the shoulder and stopped in front of Lothíriel. “Good evening, princess.”

“Good evening, my lord,” she said. She took his outstretched hand, but rather than clasp her hand and let go, Éomer tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. His arm was warm through his linen shirt. He turned them to face his lieutenant.

“Thank you, Éothain,” he said. The lieutenant bowed and retreated to join the two trailing riders. Neither Éomer or Lothíriel said anything more, but Eadric led Nendis back along the stream to look for more mussels as though he’d been dismissed, too.

“There is the Riddermark,” Éomer said, staring west across the stream. He walked her to the edge of the bridge but went no further.

Lothíriel looked up at him, surprised at how wistful he sounded. “Will you not cross? It’s a short bridge.”

Éomer shook his head, smiling sadly. “My uncle will lead the way.”

“Ah.” She twisted her free fingers in her skirt. “Can you not go on the bridge at all?”

“You want to see it? I will take you halfway,” he said.

They walked onto the bridge. The stream flowed gently under the bridge. The sound was bubbly and light, almost like windchimes; it was nothing like the roaring of the ocean, nor even like the gentle back and forth of the tides. But it was relaxing all the same, and between the sound of the water, the rustling of the leaves, and the soft evening light, Lothíriel felt quite at peace.

“I was wondering how far you could see down the stream,” she said. “But the trees do their job well.”

“Oh? What’s their job?” Éomer stopped and turned to face her. He dropped her arm, but stayed close. They were almost halfway across the bridge.

“To give cover, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, eyes twinkling. “How could I forget?”

Lothíriel tried to contain her own grin but failed, so she turned south to look towards the mountains. She leaned against the stone parapet. A short ways upstream, Nendis and Eadric were standing close together by the bank, facing away from Lothíriel with their hands clasped. Lothíriel’s smile softened as she watched them murmuring indistinctly to each other.

“They’re well matched,” Éomer said, coming up next to her. He was still not as far across the bridge as her, and she noted the middle of the bridge to herself. She didn’t want him to accidentally enter Rohan when he clearly felt he couldn’t.

“They’re sweet,” she said. “And Eadric is a credit to Rohan. He has been very kind to us both.” She thought of how often she tuned him out and winced. “I do not always pay very good attention, but he’s a quick learner. His Westron is very much improved.”

“It’s easy to learn when you are fond of the teacher,” Éomer noted.

Lothíriel knew the truth of that. Learning the harp with her mother had been so much easier than with the stern master who took on that role once her mother grew too weak. Even now, a dozen years later, she remembered her mother’s advice more clearly than the master’s.

Her mother. Lothíriel sighed and crossed her arms tight.

“What’s the matter?” Éomer said.

She did not answer immediately. The last time she had thought of her mother in Éomer’s company, she had insulted him. She couldn’t risk it again—if they had another argument now, she’d rather ride straight back to Minas Tirith than carry on. Did she dare tell him what really plagued her, or was it safer to lie?

“I will try not to judge, if that makes it easier.” His voice was low and gentle. “And although I’d like to know your thoughts, you do not need to speak.”

That did make it easier. Lothíriel turned and sat on the edge of the parapet. “I was thinking of my mother,” she said, and stopped. No, it was no good.

But Éomer did not seem to be bothered by her pause. He sat a couple of feet away from her, close enough that no one else could hear.

“I understand,” he said. “This trip must be like reliving what you endured as a child.”

“It’s not like that at all!” Lothíriel flushed and looked away when he raised his eyebrows at her. “You wondered what I had to be ashamed of.” She dug her fingers into her ribs, summoning her courage. “You are giving your uncle so much honor, but I did not even leave my room on the day my mother was buried. I just… watched. From a high window.”

Éomer was silent, and after a minute Lothíriel looked at him from under her eyelashes, stomach quaking. But he was only staring up the stream with a thoughtful expression. When he noticed that she was looking at him, she looked away again, but he put a large hand on her shoulder and gently nudged her to face him.

“You were a child, weren’t you?”

“I was nine.”

“Then consider yourself absolved, princess. I was eight when my parents died. My father was killed in battle, and my mother died only a few months later. I was so angry at her for leaving us that Éowyn had to drag me to her burial. You are no more to blame than I was. It’s fate that has been unkind to us. But we do not need to carry our shame forever.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. “Is that true?” It was hard to believe.

“Of course! We do not lie in the Riddermark. And even if we did, I would not lie to you.”

Lothíriel took his hand from her shoulder and squeezed it between her own. “Thank you.” It would take time to process what he’d said, but at least now she had something else to process other than her never-ending cycle of guilt. She let go of his hand, heart a little lighter than before. Why had she been so afraid to talk about it? It had been almost a dozen years. How silly of her. She shook her head with a little smile.

“There, you look better now.” Éomer was smiling too, but his gaze soon slipped past her down the road into Rohan and he grew somber again. “I dread the return,” he murmured.

Lothíriel crossed her ankles and plucked at her skirt, eyes downcast. Hadn’t he been eager to get home? Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking of all that lay ahead of him. _She_ certainly didn’t always think everything through. But what could she say to comfort him? There was no point in telling him everything would be alright—her conversation with her father had cemented the truth of the matter. Rohan was a mess, and Éomer was right to dread the future.

Yet… despair was surely the wrong outlook. Despair led to death if you weren’t lucky. Lothíriel thought of her uncle Denethor and shuddered. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the image of her uncle’s pyre transformed in her mind’s eye into Éomer engulfed in flames, head bowed in grief.

Lothíriel’s eyes snapped open and she grabbed Éomer’s arm without thinking. Her breath came quick and harsh. It had only been a stray thought—she was no prophet—and yet she was afraid.

“What is it?” Éomer said, alarmed. Her fingers dug into his arm; he winced. Lothíriel pulled back at once.

“I am sorry,” she said, face burning. She clenched her hands together. “I only—I am afraid of you falling prey to despair.”

Éomer’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in surprise. He rubbed his arm. “I will not despair,” he said. “I know the dangers of it well enough.”

Of course—his sister. From what Elphir had told her of their father’s first encounter with Lady Éowyn on the Pelennor Fields, she had been a stone’s throw from death’s door herself.

“I know you must,” Lothíriel said. “Yet even the wisest among us can be blinded by their own fears.”

A rueful look crossed Éomer’s handsome features. “I only fear that what I know will not be enough. But that will not stop me from doing all I can.”

“Good!” she declared. She put her hands in her lap and glanced at his arm. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“Do not be. Your concern for me means far more than any pains I’ve gotten from it.” He smiled gently and held out a large hand; Lothíriel put one of hers in it. Éomer squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’ve come, princess. With you, at least, I can speak my mind and be heard.”

Lothíriel blinked. Surely her father and King Elessar listened to their friend. “You are a king,” she said. “I would think that would be enough to make others heed your words.”

“Sometimes a king does not like to always be getting advice.”

Proud man, indeed! Lothíriel chewed on her lip.

“I suppose if I had decades of experience and wanted the best for everyone, I’d try and tell you what to do too,” she mused.

Éomer laughed and squeezed her hand again. “You, at least, have been open with me.”

“Well,” she said, “I—”

“Lothíriel!”

She jumped to her feet, though Éomer kept a hold of her hand. Amrothos was jogging down the road towards them, his short hair tousled. He looked aggravated, though he waved when she caught his eye. “The queen wants you,” he called.

Éomer stood up and lifted her hand to his heart. Lothíriel swallowed and stared into his bright eyes. She could feel his steady heartbeat against the palm of her hand.

“Bless you, princess,” Éomer said quietly. Amrothos drew up to the bridge, panting, and Éomer released her hand. “I will see you in the Riddermark.”

* * *

Lothíriel rode with Amrothos the next morning. There were around ten pairs of riders between them and the front of the procession. Éomer, dressed as richly as the day he reached Minas Tirith, rode just behind his uncle’s bier with two lieutenants flanking him. He was followed by King Elessar, Faramir, Imrahil, and Queen Arwen and her people. From her spot behind the elves, Lothíriel stood in her saddle to watch the bier cross the bridge across the Merling Stream.

Théoden’s golden bier glinted in the dappled morning sun. The king was going home.


End file.
